As Deo sat in the kitchen, his mind tried to make sense of what his sight beheld. The table in front of him seemed different to when he sat there the last time. It appeared bigger. Probably because of the size, when compared to the one he had in his prison cell. Either way, it felt strange. The six chairs around the table were worn and unsteady; their previous light brown colour had now taken on a dark grayish shade, lightened by the constant scrubbing and polishing. From where he sat, he saw the kitchen sink propped up with two pieces of wood. Wood Shelly must have fastened to keep the tattered stand from crumbling to the floor. The kerosene stove was blackened and choked by the soot. A shade highlighted on the few cooking pots, hanging from four inch nails, driven into the wooden wall.
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