FICTION: Strength

"Careful, careful, don't scratch the walls!" The old lady exclaimed as the couch - soft, luxurious slid along the tiles on Teflon skates. The couch was a metre and a bit deep, the hallway may as well have been a modern lounge room, three metres wide, with tall ceilings. Not a speck of dust to be seen. A portrait of a young man hung from the wall in a golden frame. A portrait of an older man, who looked to be the young man's father hung in a more elaborate frame, dating it, was alongside.

Her wedding photograph completed the narrative as the couch made its way to the front door. "There's plenty of space," the man complained; pushing the couch forward with little to no effort, years of labour etched into his muscle's memories.

He wore a crisp, dark green polo shirt, a single word embodied over the breast, Removals. His outfit was completed by work shorts, and a hair cut that seemed like it only happened hours ago. His boots moved him forward as he spoke. *"Can you open the door for me?" *

The woman rushed forward, eyes wide at the metre large gap either side of the couch as it made its pilgrimage down the hallway, like a coffin travelling down a church aisle amid onlooking mourners. Only here, there was a worried old lady, some old portraits, and a removalist.

She opened the door for the man, but stood in the way. He spoke only with his eyes, prompting her to move, eagerly aware at the time ticking away on his watch, mirroring the beat of his heart. "Thank you."

She looked back at the space behind him, where the Teflon skates the couch's legs sat upon had cleaned a streak along the tiles, cleaner than her mop, and for a moment she despaired. The house wasn't as clean as it could be. But it was cleaner now than before.

The autumn breeze threw a few golden leaves down the hallway down toward the path the couch had carved across the tiles, toward the spare room.

The spare room wasn't always spare - it had been the room where her son would entertain himself, and it was barely used. She didn't want it in the house because it was barely used. It had been purchased to provide a comfortable place to read, to watch movies, to perhaps put an arm around the shoulder of a potential lover, to share a kiss - but the return flight ticket was never used.

She thought about how that couch may have sagged, as the man pushed it past her, onto the terrazzo porch. She closed the door, stopping another eager gust of wind and its leaves from entering the house, and thought about how the couch may have gained stains and sweat patches through its use, but It had lived an easy life, for a couch. The only thing that sat on it was the morning light and whatever shadows it would cast upon the fabric.

The man loaded the couch into the back of a small truck, with the aid the driver, the doors closed, and the diesel engine choked into life. She went back inside, searching for a broom.

^{AI Image - really nailed the prompt and my mind's eye for this story.}