Mr L'Etrance and the building.
Mr Peter L'Etrance was walking slowly and directly towards the sad, glum building that towered before him on the other side of the grey street.
A cloud passed over the sun, veiling what little light was left; the light was desperately trying to cling onto every edge and shape. But it was not succeeding. And so, everything went surprisingly dark, and the street improved well on its backbiting blackness that now seemed to swallow and overwhelm every detail, every bin and every piece of crispy litter that swept across the old, unused tarmac. But Mr L'Etrance was used to it;he knew exactly what it was, and it was becoming more usual. This darkness. And then it was gone. It left the world, and he came to his senses again. He wavered. Sniffed, and then continued his quest of approaching the building.
One step: he was carefully stepping over the worn pavement onto the curb. Two steps: placing a foot on the road. And then another. In few seconds he was there, feeling forlorn, unimportant.
The building was now didn't seem that big, though it was black and threatening. It's shiny surface, now gritty and weather worn was cold and and hard. Mr L'Etrance looked at a stained article that flapped loosely in the weak but bitter wind: "2028: the 200th nervous breakdown!." The article's headline looked intently at him , the rest of the writing was faded, drawing and drowning images of empty eyed humans. There was a sense that this had once been important.
Even importance looses its dignity sometimes. He sighed. Yes, nowadays he was not needed much more. But, proud as he was, he considered himself a good teacher, even though he had not said a word to a pupil in many, many years. Not since there was that change. But people have to forget, he thought: change changes a course of history, no change is what keeps old and worn memories clinging to you, no change is no history. He forgot to think twice about it, he couldn't forget.
Taking his deep and thoughtful eyes away from the article, Mr L'Etrance turned his mind to the large door he was supposed to enter. A strange fear was holding him back. There was something about this door. It was like it had eyes and could see clearly, his every movement.
But his feeling of pride conquered that sense of fear, only by half an inch:
he stepped backwards sharply, smartened his suit collar, sniffed once and gave the door a quick, delitcate tap with the tips of his fingers.
The door opened, without a sound, oozing imaginary steam and smoke, in the eyes of L'Etrance. He was looking into a black hole.
With a quick last glance around, he disappeared, the door closing behind him, shut once again.
Far away a shrill birds cry was heard, piercing in the sky.