Coaxed from the air by the cold outside, mist clings to the single glaze window. In places, the moisture swarms into droplets that gather in stubborn colonies around the smooth deltas of travelling water. I never see them fall, each inevitable bead, but the kitchen window sill stays damp.

When I clear up the water, it only returns the next day, so often I walk past and pretend it isn’t there. I couldn’t this time, coming back to the house after a month away. Rust had seeped from beneath the landlord’s buckling paintwork and left red streaks across the sill. Ruddy stains marked the margins of the pool which had formed on the ledge. Fine whiskers of mould were sprouting in the water, powdery and fragile, all waiting to be blown.

This window wetland was spilling over, and black, blotchy masses populated the damp wall below. In amongst them, salts leached from the flaking paint in tangles of crystal thread, which shattered to a sparkling dust as I brushed them off.

I reached for a cloth and turned towards the indifferent trickle.