[Immediately, there are two things Phil is likely to notice about Alfred's apartment. One is that it is almost unsettlingly clean, everything scrubbed and polished and dusted within an inch of its life, from floor to ceiling. Even in the kitchen, the only thing out of place is a melted microwave.
The other thing is, of course, Alfred himself, sitting in his living room. On the coffee table in front of him is his shut laptop, as well as an open notebook and stopwatch at his right hand.
His left hand is, currently, being held in the flame of a lit candle, and he is staring listlessly at it, eyes still very red from crying. He doesn't look up as Phil enters, shoulders stooped, tail curled around the base of his chair.
Action
The other thing is, of course, Alfred himself, sitting in his living room. On the coffee table in front of him is his shut laptop, as well as an open notebook and stopwatch at his right hand.
His left hand is, currently, being held in the flame of a lit candle, and he is staring listlessly at it, eyes still very red from crying. He doesn't look up as Phil enters, shoulders stooped, tail curled around the base of his chair.
His voice is small, when he speaks. Hollow.]
Hallo, Phil. Thank you.