A map, with a note attached
People travel through here, only some of them stay. This is a liminal space for many. If you decide not to stay, please leave something behind. The hills like to remember.
Notes on a development on Conebird‘s map
The hedge has grown. It hasn’t done so in years.
It tracks a path due south, following the river in another world. Its leaves look strangely out of place.
A watchtower is built for humans to track its growth.
A long dozen poem
Wind and Cold.
Sunshine reflecting diamonds in the snow.
Cheeks are red, heart is warm. In this silence there is calm.
A cairn, telling this story
It is perfectly tidy, but empty. How did the people who lived here choose what they left behind? The beds are made. The kitchen has full sets of crockery, but the pantry is empty. There is no decay, only dust and stillness. Like the house is waiting.
The house has many rooms. Some are even unfinished, the windowframes unpainted, the skirting unglued.
Ivy climbs up the side of the house facing the garden. The siding hints at the fact this was intentional. The garden is too overgrown to tell whether it was tended or left to nature’s will.
There is one shared space in the house. It is spartan. There are many shelves. A single book has been left on each one.
Somehow, even when the temperature drops outside, the inside of the house is always a few degrees warmer, and it is never truly dark.
The plants outside are drawn to this. The ivy is creeping in. A tree is growing through the cracks in the floor. This house was waiting for someone, it was left to wait for others. Nature has answered that call.