It was empty.

Not stripped, not ransacked.

Empty in the ordinary way — the furniture gone, the hooks still in the walls, a bath mat left behind, one of my books on a windowsill.

A mug in the sink.

Her telephone was disconnected.

Not off — disconnected, with the three-tone and a recorded voice.

I called the building’s management and was told the tenant had given notice and paid through the end of the month.

The man on the telephone was perfectly pleasant and told me nothing else, correctly.