The house was dilapidated. On the market for a quick sale.
I wandered through, nudging trash along the ground.
Crinkling my face. A hand over my nose and mouth.
Beautiful bones to this place. Ceiling roses and architraves.
Stunning wood features.
I imagined generations of a loving family. Good times and bad.
Nobody left. Everything of value removed.
The empty palette catches my eye.
There’d been a painter in the family.
I wondered whether their work was known.
And if I’d recognise the name.
Something other than debris.
I hoped so! (95 words)