No invitations went out, none that I sent or saw anyway, but as the summer waned, travelers began trickling in. They stopped by with reasons to suit the individual: curiosity, rest, even for a cup of tea. They stopped and then they were gone. Each time my hope grew. As summer's light dimmed, replaced by longer nights, the house would stand as a beacon.
The most interesting thing to me, not as caretaker for I was not one, nor as an owner (I wasn't that either) but as a squatter that had made his home here, was that for each visitor that passed through, some part of the unfinished house became more complete after they left. It wasn't much, perhaps a couple of wooden planks added to the floor or a few bricks to the walls. I noted pane-less window frames pop up with sheer curtains tied off to one side.
I never saw one of these welcome visitors, perhaps future residents!, pick up a hammer or bring the much needed hardware supplies. Yet when they came the house was one way, and when they left it was another.
Comments (1 so far!)
I'm loving this series. How "home" functions for different people is so fascinating to me, and also the tags and particularly "squat until it's yours" add so much to it all.
- #1456 Posted 4 years ago
Inspired by (sequel to):
The house was still half-built, half-destroyed. It had never been completed and for every few hours …Ruminations Among the Ruination
- Published 4 years ago.
- Story viewed 17 times and rated 0 times.
All stories on Ficlatté are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 License. What does this mean?