It was a cold place. 

A lorn space surrounded by a vast nothingness, forsaken by Time like an unwanted child.

In such a place, little by little, something was born. Lost things with no desire or destination, they met one another and, piece by piece, found comfort in each other. Solace.

The wood.

The glass.

The rock.

As moments passed—as Time allowed—they became a house.

Yet the place was still cold.

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The house; forlorn. 

However, from their bleakness and isolation came an idea. One that was not warm or content, yet one that brought purpose.

The house found comfort in the idea, aching with desperate needs it could not name or fully comprehend. Needs begging to be tended. And as the idea embraced the house, it made so that such place was not as lorn anymore. It gave Time reasons to pay attention and listen, to allow Its flow within that space. 

And as Time passed, as the idea grew and matured, so did the house. 

So did its new owner.

And its owner knew how to tend to its needs—understood the house and the idea behind it all too well. So whenever the front door opened, everything was in its place.

It was a cold place.

A forgotten space.

Yet time and time again, the door would open and its bell would ring. 

The sound would echo within the house, making its wood, windows, and stones shiver. And as soon as the door closed, steps would be heard. A chair would be pulled.

And the owner would smile.

“Hello. How can I serve you today?”