Stepping inside, the room is of medium size and filled with clutter. China cats, old photographs and letters, broken clocks and dusty books crowd the shelves around an old gramophone that is skipping through the crackling, brass-band music you heard from outside.

There is a bed covered with a patchwork quilt up against one wall, and a window letting dusty, golden light into the small room. An old woman sits in an armchair facing the window, and working a thin chain between her fingers. On the windowsill, a cat growls a little and jumps onto the floor, the pale, flat disks on a beaded curtain rattling around the animal as it passes through them.

Drawing closer to the window, you look at the curtain that is still clattering and swaying with the disturbance. Each of the disks on the chains is a single slice of ivory, and each of them has a portrait painted on it.

Among the faces is a man in military uniform, a girl in a pale yellow dress, a woman in a lime-green business suit, a man carrying a briefcase, and a middle-aged man in a blue boiler suit.

You begin to notice something under the heavy smell of rose and lavender.

You walk over to the woman who doesnt seem to have noticed your presence. She is painting on one of the thin ivory disks. Painting a woman in a well-worn suit carrying an armful of magazines.

A copy of The Watchtower sits on top of the broken clocks and china cats scattering the sideboard.

The record skips.

The cat begins to growl and paw at one of the room's loose floorboards.