The house rests peacefully on a bed of grass.

It is accompanied by tall pines who gently sing to her, along with the wind. Her skeleton creaks and moans under her own weight, while the vines wrap their long arms around her to comfort her misery. Inside of the house, it is quiet, empty, and dark. The sun seems to have given up on trying to penetrate her blackened windows. The house rests peacefully on its deathbed, waiting for the men who built her to come back and destroy her. All the young bushes rest their tiny hands on her waist in the overgrown backyard, while the willows in the front yard weep silently for her imminent death. Spiders inside her spin webs like beautiful jewelry for her, while the termites carve tapestries as a thanks for a safe place to live and raise many generations of termite children. From far away, the sound of a construction crew is heard driving slowly up the road.

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