Nobody has come through the door in a long time, and the garden did not get the message.
Vines have wrapped themselves around the iron ribs of the roof. Ferns spill out of broken stone planters. Pale flowers are growing straight up through cracks in the tile floor, and none of it looks like it is dying. Rain runs down the glass overhead in steady sheets, and it drips, occasionally, from the framework onto a leaf below.
This is two hours of that particular kind of quiet, the one that belongs to a place people left but did not manage to kill.
The gentlest ambience we have made. No sudden sounds, nothing sharp, just water and things that refused to stop growing.
