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I saw the house every time I drove to the highway. It sat perched on a hillside looking out over an expanse of rolling hills that had been demolished by a developer some time in the last ten years. There had been a time when that all had been wilderness, back when there was still mystery left in the world.
Now, an artery road separated it from the nascent horizon; cars bypassing its lonely earthen structure. Few considered its significance, or its ancient stone chimney: a stoic reminder of the simple life that once transpired within its walls.
“These bricks are new, of course.”
I put the camera down. The documentary could wait as I listened to the preservationist’s summary: “Used to be a hospital during the Civil War; but Sherman burned all the records, so who can prove it? City sold it, didn’t think it was worth the money to keep it up—that’s when the occupant moved in.”
I saw the curtain in the upstairs window move aside:
She was beautiful.
Our eyes met.
I felt awkward holding a camera in her backyard and wondered if she was told we were coming? But more than that I felt shame, for I saw in her eyes a look of longing, of sadness. The curtains fell back into place; she made no protest.
“Come on, I’ll show you inside.”
The house smelt of mold, its fixtures were of a bygone era, and apart from the rotting counter and cabinets, the house was empty.
The bedroom where the woman had stood was faded pink, barren, and sad.
The woman and the world she had been a part of, wherever it might have been, were gone. All that was left were the veil-like curtains, and a lingering desire for what might have been.