I moved back a step and looked at the work of fiction. It jumped up and down with the vibrations that shook the walls and made dust fall and leap from the floorboards. Silently, I moved to the cloudy window and pressed my transparent hand gently to the cracked glass. I gazed down. Workers and heavy machinery littered the dead front lawn.
One of the strange workmen, dressed in orange, looked over the house. His gaze travelled along the splitting weatherboards and stopped at my distorted window, his eyes widened.
Shaking his head, he looked again.
I waved and performed a courtly bow. The poor man sputtered and pointed with a shaky hand.
I turned away from the window and focused on the aged room. It was sparse with an old table, mismatched chair, small bookcase and a handful of novels I had acquired over the decades.
I remembered how the room had smelled of sweet roses once.
The walls now are, splotched with faded blue, the wooden floors dulled through continuous use. I moved forward, not feeling my bare feet on the floor or hearing the creak as I moved.
I paused in the middle and turned about.
This was my home. Everyone in town considered it as mine, even long after the death of my family.
So where would I go now?