When she opened the door, a wave of rotting trash and used kitty litter knocked her back a step. This could not be the place. She checked the number on the wall beside the entrance. It matched the address on the note she held crumpled in her hand. Nothing had changed except the changing of the calendar.
She walked into the hall, dodging the buzzing flies and gathering cats, each group of living beings rubbing some part of her body. She felt dirty and claustrophobic. How could her mother live in this place? When she stepped into the living room she found the answer to her question and the body of her dead mother.