A sprinkle pattered on the shallow footsteps, left by the broad feet. The light fell from a small window on the side, old, and making the light that passed through it look old, though it came from a very new light bulb.
They would have to do something about the crack in the night, letting the endless day through from the hidden world; secrets were turning people’s heads.
Crumbs under the pan would not burn; salt in the inlet kept the seabirds away; an empty spice-grinder left alone, far into the heart of the wilderness, the treasure of no wild creatures. A shooting star out of the heavens, a battered teapot which landed with a scorch, alighting and lying close by to keep the spice-grinder company.