Finding an Abandoned House: A Lesson in Entropy
I found a house once, as a child, that had been left.
It was a wooden home with a brick chimney, and parts of the walls had crumbled, leaving it open to the fields. A fallen pine, I think, lay across its beams, the deadened branches reaching into the little kitchen, all grown over with weeds and lichens.
It was as if whoever had lived there had stolen away in the dead of night, only, years and years in the past. The furniture, what remained of it, was old-fashioned. There was no microwave or dishwasher, but a little copper kettle still perched on the stove.
There were handwritten letters and postcards stashed in various nooks, and these were intensely fascinating at the time. It was a tantalizing mystery to be solved, you see. Who had lived here? Why had they left without any of their possessions? Had they simply died? If so, why had no kin come to clear out the house?
I don’t remember any of the answers that might have been uncovered. I don’t even remember if I was alone when I found the house or with friends or maybe my sister. I don’t remember where it was, how old I was, how I came to be there, or why I only went…
