Tim Meacham

The woman lived from the last house in the street that had not been vacated and gutted prior to demolition. There was no sign of life other than the light in her window – the streetlights had been disconnected, the only the other light flared from sodium security lamps illuminating the demolition machinery parked opposite the house.

Originally built as part of a small factory, her front room had once been a gents’ toilet. The walls were tiled cream and blue and shelves had been built across and around all but one urinal. Furniture, including a small piano of light wood and a rug sat awkwardly on the cold concrete floor. 
When she spoke her voice vibrated the piano strings – her words resonating through the floor and walls 

After I’d completed the brief ceremony the woman offered me a cup of tea. We spoke of her life on the street and the changes she had witnessed. As I rose to leave, I noticed a light vapour curling through the keyhole of the door