Guy De Maupassant. Life (№ 70262)

It was sad the following days, those dark days when the house feels empty due to the lack of close creatures vanished forever, days, tortured by suffering every time you look at any object that is constantly used by the deceased. Every minute in the heart occurs some painful memory. Here is his chair, his umbrella left in front of his glass, and not cleaned by the maid! And in all the rooms still lying in the mess of his belongings: a pair of scissors, gloves, the book pages which touched his heavy fingers, a lot of little things, acquiring painful value because they resemble a thousand little facts.
And his voice haunts you; it seems like I hear it; I want to run to God knows where, away from the delusions of this house.