When the postman’s round takes him along Crompton Street, he calls at number 30. He calls at 32. Then he calls at number 36.

--

Number 34 is gone.

--

The gap in the row of densely-packed terraced houses glares like a missing tooth. A tangle of weeds and brambles crowds the space where there was once a house – fecund and strangling in summer, a labyrinth of bare sticks in winter.
​
--

They had to dig the garden to a depth of eight feet to find them all.

--

Local children dare one another to run through the tangle of weeds to the alley behind. There are few takers. The houses to either side seem to draw away from the space. Tenants never stay long, in spite of the rock-bottom rent.

--
​​
They tore up the floorboards and ripped out the skirting. They took up the plumbing and found hollow spaces in the walls.

--

Those who remember cross the street when they pass. Those who don’t are compelled to glance up, drawn by the naked space where space shouldn’t exist. Some note the broken numerical sequence, and are reminded of towers that eschew the 13th floor.

--

Piece by piece and room by room, the house gave up its secrets.

--

For a while it stood empty, boarded windows and doors staring blankly. Vagrants and trespassers did not disturb its silence.

--

At last the bulldozers came, and the people were relieved. Under the scarred and shining blades the house became a ruin, the ruin a vacant space.

--

Nature abhors a vacuum, and the space would not stay empty. In its absence we fill that void with terrible things both remembered and imagined.

And when we pass the place where the house once was, we pull our coats tighter around ourselves, suppress a shudder and quicken our step.

Gerard cursed as broken glass crunched under his boots. Who would steal plants from a botanical garden? The horticulturist scanned the orchids he had tended for half a century and released a shaky breath. Then he grinned. A white cap stained with blood was caught on the lowest arm of the saguaro cactus.

​Looking at Paris in this light made it seem like the Eiffel Tower shimmered with gold. A group of tourists stood at its snow enveloped feet, wrapped in warm coats with their heads tilted upwards. Although Eleanor could not make out their facial expressions, she was certain their faces would be mesmerized by the illuminated sight before them.

From as long as she could remember Eleanor and her mother spoke about taking a trip to Paris. Her mother had authoritatively advised Eleanor and only half-jokingly, “In Paris we shall spend the time eating only bread and cheese and drinking nothing but wine.” Eleanor chuckled to herself as she took in the magical scene. The snowflakes looked as if they were suspended in the sky, ever so slowly making their way to the ground.

Eleanor's red rimmed eyes became bleary and she could no longer focus on Paris. With one hand she gently shook the snow globe one last time before resting it safely back on her mother’s dresser. As she did, she swore she felt her mother’s frail hand grip hers a little tighter. It hurt to see her once spritely mother now bed bound, taking in deep exaggerated breaths that were becoming further and further apart. Eleanor’s chest tightened and her throat felt constricted as she gulped, overwhelmed with what could only be described as a mixture of regret and fear. Knowing without a doubt that her promise would never come to fruition, from her trembling lips she still found herself utter the words “We will go next year, I promise.”