The sodium light is slowly replaced by the rising sun, its early morning rays filling the room with warm light, much kinder than the actinic light of the streetlights. This light reveals, emerging from the gloom, the serried ranks of knick-knacks, photo frames, doilies, trinkets.

Silently, she sits.

Above the cold gas fire, there is a small mantel piece. It is occupied by a small army of china ornaments, brash colours and brasher sentimentality their weapons. Poorly glazed horses vie for space with badly painted cherubs, the image of their eyes a few millimetres away from where anatomy dictates. Pride of place is given to a small model of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, drunkenly lurching at a solid merry-go-round, fated to never spin in joy.

Silently, she sits.

The light travels across the cluttered, cramped room, illuminating the photographs imprisoned behind glass, perched on spindly occasional tables, like the forgotten hermits of an earlier age.

Silently, she sits.

The photographs reveal a time-lapse movie of her life, from a young girl, gawking at the camera, through to her smiling happily at a family Christmas, surrounded by bored looking grandchildren. In between, we see the pretty young woman, posing with naive elegance, staring off into space off camera. We see the smiles of marriage, a slightly out of focus groom beside a slightly out of focus bride, a kindness to both. We see the exhausted mother, toddlers corralled into submission in a photographer's studio. We see the children, older now, the grim formality of school photographs, the haphazard compositions of holiday snaps, the laughing as they wave to the camera, all grown up, dressed smartly, heading out of the door.

Silently, she sits.

The time lapses are greater now, years passing by until a snapshot of a smiling women, her skin lined, her hair grey, improbably large sunglasses, no husband, waving from some anonymous formal garden, dutiful daughter-in-law beside her, grandchild squalling in a pushchair. Years again, and a family shot, the woman, older again, tired, her sons, her daughters-in-law beside her, grandchildren in front, the end of a long day at a beach, full of tears and tantrums, ice cream and icy wind. The last few images are of the grandchildren, small versions of the school photographs of earlier.

Silently, she sits.

The day heats up, and the sun, stronger now, crosses the multicoloured mats, inching up the fading sofa. Crocheted covers protect the arms, delicate doilies the back. Now the light is stronger, we can see the dim layer of dust covering the room, thicker where arthritic fingers have not been able to reach. Pictures on the wall have their once bright colours dimmed not only by their long acquaintance with the sun, but by the thin film coating the glass.

Silently, she sits.

The sun illuminates her, her white hair a glowing crown. Her skin is loose, relaxed, the wrinkles smoothed. Her eyes are closed, and sunken. Her mouth is open, dry, empty. Her teeth lie on her lap, where they have ended after rolling down the front of the thick woolen cardigan. Her dress is worn, but sturdy. It shows its first stain, from her final relaxation. Her feet, swollen slightly, are encased in thick, durable and warm slippers. They have lasted long enough.

Silently, she sits.

A phone rings.

Silently, she sits.