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There is still a house on Viridian Street. Abandoned long ago, it stands no longer on the corner lot it occupied then, but crushed between ragged storefronts, ever since Duirmoor Alley shut down and buildings sprung up in its stead. Stephanie’s windows look onto red brick, and the years of dust (along with the few hours of soot they cover) trickle through the sinking floorboards with each heave and creak. In time, nothing will remain of the building; but in time, nothing remains of all things.
(a possible opening passage for something I’m working on)
