We were in the walls, and an embodiment of a soft cloud. Of destruction. The jagged bits of metal, the crumbling plaster. Destruction was so, so soft.
We were in the walls, and we were dead. We were infinite. We had been here forever, and we will remain here forever. A lighting storm of long-gone intimacy, still present in almost every way.
Mrs. Genadine woke up with the remnants of an extremely troubling dream. She didn't remember much, with the exception of a voice that had told her many things, curious things. She was now pestered by the notion that the previously brilliant idea of getting rid of that run-down old house of her nephew's now seemed very bad, oh, very bad indeed. It was bound to bring bad luck, what, being family heritage and all.
Mrs. Genadine made a decision and sent an urgent telegram to the pleasant, suited man with whom she had made arrangements two days previously.
"Do not tear down Algibury summer house STOP Important STOP
Mrs. A. L. Genadine"
