Home Close

At the end of Home Close, an abandoned flat slumped in silence, its windows black, its door chained but always rattling in the wind. Children dared each other to climb the cracked steps, swearing they heard whispers inside. Paint peeled from the walls like shedding skin, and weeds clawed through broken tiles on the balcony. The American man had lived there, his curtains glowing at dusk, the smell of Sensimilla drifting into the street. Now only dust remained, and the memory of his difference. In a neighbourhood worn thin, the flat stood as a hollow heart—empty, but never forgotten.