Stone steps rise from dirty lawns to reach hopelessly for nowhere.
The sceleton of a compound wall, the wet dirt under unkept bushes. An empty plot filled with the neighbour’s garbage. An electric pole wrapped with so much wire it’s like an insect caught in a cobwebs. Eighty years ago it was farmland, then a small shack, a home, an apartment, a memory of someone who moved away.
Time passes and forgets but there are still reminders that go way back. Someone lived there. There’s no reason to care but you can see. The steps don’t go nowhere. One they used to lead to someone’s home.