At the top of Sycamore Hill, where the once neatly cut grass had become wild foliage, stood an old house. Old houses are often perceived as not retaining the spirit of its previous tenants, they are at least thought to have retained the history of their owner. This house was no exception. Like most old homes set atop old hills, time had taken its toll. The bricks were worn and discolored by their red, pink, black shades. The softened wooden door looked like another heavy night of rain could cause it to collapse. The bricks were strangely shaped; irregular quasi-rectangles stacked on top of each other in the random pattern the bricks always seemed to be placed in. The grass, although overgrown, was as lush and green as ever, without any third-party assistance. The rain cared for it as the most skilled gardener might have done. There was an old, worn gravel path leading directly to the door that had seen better days. The path led to an old broken fence that looked like a child had built it out of toy logs. Some boards had given way and broken in two. Others stayed together, because they were bigger, stronger. Or maybe it was just luck. Maybe it would be time to break up soon. Just outside the fence was a mailbox, its metal rusted to a deep red-brown, its surface pockmarked like that of an acne-ridden teenager. The sun was setting. The house didn't know. The house had not realized that it had been alone for many sunsets. The purple, red and yellow hues shone incandescently on the house, giving it a certain luminosity that could leave an onlooker stunned. The house didn't know. When the sun rose the next morning, the house did not notice the approaching car. Two men came out of the car. A tall one and I... in the center of the paper......took the camera out of his pocket and turned it on. Even though he supported the old house, he was wary of moving too much for fear of falling into the basement. He tried to stay where he was: he wouldn't go upstairs. Hopefully the photo he took of the old wooden stairs would explain his motivations. The men left and the house was left alone for a month of sunsets before that day came. It was demolition day. The house didn't notice the bulldozer approaching, tearing down the tall grass that had protected it for so many sunsets. He didn't notice the strange claw of a shovel digging into him, tearing him to pieces. He didn't notice the rusty mailbox being destroyed, and he didn't notice the stable pieces of fence being forced to break their bonds. He didn't notice that the bulldozer was gone hours later. The house didn't realize it was gone.