Emboldened by this sight, I make my way forward and rap on the door. I step back. The houses of all who have made this place home are still and silent, extant but bereft of the merry presence of tenants. Wan light reveals sand-blasted placards and flags unravelling in snaps. An old notice of a wanted trade with a manuscript tumbles by, impaled on a dead thorn bush.
Old signs bend in the cold dry wind.
An attic door slams shut. Emboldened by this sight, I make my way forward and rap on the door. I step back.