The old cobblestone house had fallen into disrepair somewhere between forty and fifty years ago. Without a swift and vast investment of money, the house would cease to be quaint and suddenly become a pile of stones at which people would shake their heads and say, "That is such a shame."
That is, if people ever saw it at all. The house was surrounded by overgrown bushes and self-seeded trees in what used to be a spacious, well-tended yard. The driveway was long and winding but was now nearly indistinguishable from the thick woods that surrounded it. The driveway ended at a gravel road, neatly kept by the town because it lead to an important cell tower eventually connecting to a better road, which connected to a yet better road, and so on until you hit the thruway ramps a few miles and one small town later.
No one could see the little cobblestone house to notice that it still had tatters of curtains in the windows. There was no one who might have seen the curtains to come up and peer through the glass to see that the house remained completely furnished as it was more than sixty years ago.
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