They didn’t know where she was. She preferred it that way.
The windows were all missing. No doors. Graffiti covered the shell of building.
It was far from town, but sometimes travelers stopped to stare, and some used the empty rooms for all manner of unsavory business.
She spent most days in the nearby woods. Foraging. Snaring. Keeping watch.
At night, she kept to the relative shelter of the basement, hanging bits of chain on entryways to serve as warning chimes.
She dreamed of restorations. Of locks on doors.
She wanted more.
But it was home enough.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: © Carole Erdman-Grant
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