Snared

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A gaping wound the size of a dead body sat in a corner of Lockwood Orphanage’s once-fine copper roof, exposing the Headmistress’s quarters to the elements. Over years, rain and snow had seeped between brick and mortar while hungry moss and lichen patiently worked downward to reclaim the plaster walls and wooden supports. Like an animal, rot crawled into all the cracks, then grew and pushed to make more room for itself. Here the lines between civilization and nature, chaos and order, were severed. Here everything knew that one day, the whole of the old Georgian mansion would be gone.

A few stories down, though fragile, the precious lines remained: The hallway that ran the length of the building was relatively dry, its curved roof marked at regular intervals by fixtures that seemed as if they might light up; bulletin boards still bore dusty papers announcing meetings, tests, and plays. Here the mansion seemed intent to go on forever, as if it were yet the host of living things.

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