A small wooden shack stands deep in the woods.
It’s weathered, empty, and distant among the trees.
It calls me to its window, where the sun glints off pieces of broken glass.
Some are hanging loosely to the window pane, but most are strewn across the floor, mixed with rocks and leaves.
On the side of the house towards the back, a rickety unsteady crumbling shack stands, a testament to the days when homegrown fruits and vegetables were sold seasonally.
I feel nostalgic, as I walk the grounds taking in each detail of this skeleton of a home.
Genre: Flash Fiction
Word Count: 100
To join Rochelle and her Friday Fictioneers Photo challenge