He looked at himself in the broken sliver of the mirror, one of his favourite finds. His hair was matted and dirty, mud and dirt streaking his face.
At least with the mirror, he could remember something about himself. The colour of his eyes, the shape of his nose, the curve of his bottom lip.
Names and ages weren't important now, not a lot was. What was important, was finding things like food, warm clothes, a safe place to sleep.
He worked hard to stay alive, but he had worked himself into a state of dementia. He had no idea where he was, how old he was, what his name was, or where he had come from.
He only knew survival. That and the boy who walked past him occasionally. Dirty blonde, not too tan, not too pale, and tall. One day he would talk to the boy, but not today.
Today, he needed clothes.
Walking over to the door, he looked up at the house. It was old and rotting, but sturdy enough that the floors could hold his weight.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside. Chills ran down his back. It felt wrong. Like he was walking into somebody else's life.
He knew that nobody had lived there for years, but it still felt strange. Closing the door behind him he walked into the foyer.
You could still see the dark stain of the wood on the walls, and the delicate wallpaper. He longed to find a way to see the house before everyone left, the richness and the beauty of it.
He slowly walked through the hallway into what he assumed had been the parlour.
Running his hands over the torn and dirty fabrics of the chairs and couches, he could feel that they were once fine, and soft. Most definitely expensive.
The dining room was next, the table was broken, and chairs lay on their sides. The pale moulding, once delicate and beautiful, was dirty and scratched.
How many families had had joyful Christmas dinners here?