Nothing is changed.

The chairs stand in their places, empty.

My mother's knitting lies upon the hearthrug, where the kitten, I remember, dragged it, somewhere back in the sixties.
I go up into my own little attic.

My cot stands in the corner, and my bricks lie tumbled out upon the floor (I was always an untidy child).

An old man enters--an old, bent, withered man--holding a lamp above his head, and I look at his face, and it is my own face.