6/10/2023 0 Comments Stone Tree by Gyrðir ElíassonWhen I glanced from the antenna dangling against the wall to the big satellite dishes sprouting like huge mushrooms on my own roof, I couldn’t help smiling. Last summer I bought the house next door, hence my curiosity, but I can’t find any information. Not such a long time in the life of a house, yet no one knows anything. On the wall by the living-room window there is a green copper plaque bearing the inscription Built 2010. Yet someone must at least have intended to live there. The wind gusts in through the gap in bitter weather. I notice that the glass in the living-room window is cracked right across and the pane in the front door is broken. It’s as if it was simply built and then abandoned without ever becoming anyone’s home. I’ve asked many people who lived in this house but no one seems to have heard of it ever being occupied. The rusty roof rises against the rust-red backdrop of the mountain. One of its ropes has frayed through, leaving it to trail on the ground, not moving except in gales when it drags over the grass with a mournful creaking. The garden is a jungle: trees and hedges growing unchecked, moss in the grass on the lawn, dandelions and daisies everywhere, and an ancient swing hanging from a tree. There are cracks in all the outside walls and the paint, once white, is now stained brown and flaking off in many places. It’s old and dilapidated, with dirty, tattered curtains covering the windows, the roof on the verge of collapse and the antenna dangling from the gable on its wire.
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