"I'm going back for what's left," he said shortly after breakfast. They watched him leave, quiet about the shared certainty that not a thing had been "left".
The sky was a solid sheet of blue but outside it still smelled of rain. His balding tires had trouble negotiating the mud.
He had to use a window; it never crossed his mind that the old place would be locked tight. Inside, he was shocked at the emptiness of it. The place was nothing but walls and passageways, with no suggestion as to where one should stand or what one should do.
Light came in from windows, holes, and cracks and traversed entire rooms uninterrupted, breaking against the walls.
The heat got to him and he took off his hat. Extending his arm he used it to catch the light here and there, becoming the interruption.
He turned around and noticed he had tracked a looping line of mud. He heard himself say, "I am the endpoint."