A metropolis of dishes. Bowl stacked upon bowl, utensils balancing precariously amongst plates and glasses. Something is growing in a plastic container, its belly a soft vanilla with bubbles of olive stretching outwards; pocket copies expanding around the grooves.
Newspapers from a daily delivery and bi-weekly sit pushed against the wall. Tiny steps of black and white leading to a grime covered window. A cardboard castle of boxes, all overflowing with once important documents, blocks the entranceway to another room where cobwebs stretch from wall to ceiling.
The rest of what was once used as a lounge is filled with books and food wrappers, fabric bags and odd shoes. A deflated ball sits as a crown atop a tower of broken electronics.
Photos in cracked frames have been neatly stacked on the only visible flat surface.
Worthless. All of it.
Except for a sparkle of pink, a stone covered in dust, set in a gold-plated ring. To many it appears to be nothing more than a cheap piece of costume jewellery, barely worth a few dollars.
But to a girl of eight it is a tiny reminder of the wrinkled woman who once called this clutter “home”.

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