When the alarm went off at 6:30 am on Monday, he hit the snooze button yet again. Indigo curtains blocked any sliver of sunshine that had a chance of entering the room. He was not really still asleep, but his body had gotten used to rising up later in the morning during the lockdown.

All that was over now, though.

He had adapted quite well to his new life during lockdown. His routine was easy, and both his young children were beyond thrilled to have their father at home all day. They seldom saw him otherwise.  Every day, he would wake up well after his wife and children had finished their breakfast, gulp down a glass of fruit juice and step out for his daily walk.

He liked to have his morning walk somewhere around mid-noon; he was just made that way.

On his way back, he’d stop by at the local general store and pick up items off the list his wife would leave out on the table for him to buy. There were always 1 or 2 items on the list, and on the days that there were none he still stopped to buy his children some chocolate or a family pack of butterscotch ice-cream.

After a family lunch, he’d spend the next few hours helping his children with their homework while his wife attended board meetings and stole 15 minute naps between them.

All that was over now, though.

With a grunt and a sigh, he picked himself out of bed at 6:45 am. The two-hour long commute days of his life were back, and so were the early mornings. A cold shower and breakfast later, he was ready to begin the day.

Lethargy lingered on the back of his mind as he drove through the city traffic, navigating as if his hands had a mind of their own. His head was still back home with his family.  

The evenings were always his favourite part. During the day, his son spent his time creating games, and in the evening the family all played them together until they were too tired to continue. Yesterday, it was cricket, only instead of 2 or 3 or 6 runs in each play, the children could take as many as they wanted to. Of course when the ball shot out of the garden and onto the main road, they ran between the wickets 87 times, and of course that led their team to an easy victory.

He chuckled at the memory of his children frantically running between the wickets, trying to score as many runs as possible in the time he took to cross the busy street, find the cricket ball in the undergrowth on the other side, and return. His wife was, as always, laughing during this time as she tried to keep count of the runs.  

The sound of a vehicle honking snapped him out of his day dreams. Turning right into oncoming traffic, he moved at snails pace in bumper to bumper traffic, and it allowed him to remember the clinking of vessels being loaded to the dishwasher each night after dinner.

At the end of the day, the couple put their children to sleep and spent the next hour or two reading. His wife always turned in before he did, but then she also woke up earlier.

The aroma of a hot, packed meal waffled up his nose, but no tiffin carrier could prevent the food from going cold long before it was lunch time.

Somewhere between navigating traffic and thinking about his family, an hour had gone by without his realization. His workplace was in sight.

He sighed, whether out of desperation or relief, no one knew.   

His job did not give him the flexibility of working from home, so his research was essentially on hold the past year.

Not anymore.

Stepping into the beige building, the interiors looked just the same. They glass doors took away any fragments of privacy from the lives of his colleagues – working away on a computer desk all day – yet they always liked it. At least, that’s what they vehemently claimed. He was glad his office, at least, was devoid of the infamous glass doors.

He preferred to work in private, away from the prying eyes of the ignorant who were either so curious they got in the way or so afraid they ran away. He knew for himself that he preferred the latter to the former.

However, he was in an office with other people. Being civil to them was an obligation for him.

Greeting a pleasant morning to the early risers, he turned left towards an empty white hallway where his footsteps echoed with every step he took. After months of abandon with little to no ventilation, the air smelt musty and full of dust. Cobwebs lines the corners where the walls met the roof.

He walked straight past the doors on his left and right, without sparing them as much as a glance. He was, at the end of the day, too important to notice the other doors. They hid people behind them, who were too tightly wrapped up in their own skin to see anything beyond it.

He thanked his stars every day that his skin was, for lack of a better phrase, merely loosely hung on his body.

He reached the end of the hallway, put his key in and turned the lock on the last door. This was his office. Everything lay untouched except by the bottommost layer of a thick coat of dust. His hand went to the left side of the door to turn on the light switch.

Nothing.

He sighed, but this time it was from frustration. Replacing a dead lightbulb was not how he had pictured his first day back. He was impatient to return to his work table, to finally return to his research. Another minute or two did not really affect his research though, especially not after it being on hold for months before that.

He set his briefcase on the ground by his feet and powered on his computer. The lights came to life as if they were finally waking up from a long siesta. He briefly considered drawing the curtains back and let the sunshine in, but quickly decided against it.

A stray ray of sunshine found its way to his work bench right at the back of the room. Walking up to it, he couldn’t hold his pride back in any longer, and a smile rose to his face.

The reflection of light on the glass threw the only colour in his office.

He was proud of his masterpiece.

The glass box was in perfect condition as was the item it preserved. Pale skin stretched tight over a skull, outlining the features of a face perfectly. His corpse smiled back at him.