It's just another typical morning - wake up to the ever-present creaking and rustling of the old house, stumble blearily through the hallways until one open door reveals the bathroom, bathe face in cold water until reality sets in.
When that's finished, he takes a quick look at the painting on the wall - today it's soft, black-and-white watercolor, abstract blobs of ink splayed like a Rorschach test. If he looks closely, he thinks he might make out a lighthouse in the background; if he looks closely, though, he could make out practically anything he wanted to see.
Useless, as usual. Since he'd inherited the house, he hadn't been able to deduce a pattern to the painting. His grandfather's will had said it would be important - but then, his grandfather's will had said plenty of things.
Rubbing the last bits of sleep from his eyes, he heads downstairs into the coffeeshop. There's only a half-hour to get things ready for opening, after all.