[ WP ] An Illiterate person finds a death note

A house by the road. Abandoned. 
 
 He squeezes through the busted door. Dark sour smells. Overturned furniture. 
 
 It'll do for tonight. 
 
 He makes himself comfortable. Drops his pack to the floor. Blanket. Flashlight. Perhaps a can of something can be found somewhere. 
 
 He clears some space. Rights the lop-sided table, the couch. 
 
 A square piece of paper, folded so neatly, flutters toward his foot. It looks strangely luminous in the dark. 
 
 He does n't know why he opens it. 
 
 Ink. Scribbles. Nice scribbles though. Controlled, pretty. Do n't really see such pretty handwriting anymore. Some loops blurred and swirled from dried droplets. 
 
 Tears. 
 
 How long has it been since someone was here? He rubs the ink but it tells him nothing. 
 
 He feels compelled to walk upstairs. A cold feeling settles at the bottom of his stomach. 
 
 Each step screams his presence to the rest of the house. He winces, cursing his heavy tread. 
 
 Standard hallway, ugly yellowed wallpaper. Trash scattered over rotten carpet. Busted bathroom mirror. Closet. Empty open room followed by a single door cracked ajar. 
 
 He slowly peeks inside. Each stitch of flesh pulsing, breath locked in his throat. 
 
 A bed. With sheets. Clean cream sheets. As if someone just woke up. A lilac vase perched on a windowsill without a lick of dust. The whole room is dry, clean. Too clean. 
 
 He finds this mild abnormalcy deeply troubling. He then sees the rope, two feet long, hanging from the ceiling. 
 
 They already cut her down. The thought bubbles to the surface of his mind without volition. A small desk in the corner is missing a chair. He wavers by the door, thinking. 
 
 His heavy steady tread on the road once more. He feels the house glaring at his back as it sinks into the horizon.
