New Scandinavia, Clock Tower District, No. 37 Pine Resin Alley.
In the end, this old house had still failed to escape being sealed off by the Golden Tax Court.
The door was still only roughly fitted into its frame, unrepaired. Two strips of sealing paper bearing scarlet stamps had simply been pasted across it in a cross, trembling slightly in the wind.
As the weather warmed, there seemed to be more homeless people on the streets, but the Clock Tower District remained quiet. Public safety here was always much better than elsewhere.
It was not that no vagrants had tried to settle here. They simply tended to vanish soundlessly into the deep shadows of a street corner one morning.
The morning sunlight carried a faint warmth, barely dispelling a little of the chill.
A figure approached along the flagstone road.
He was somewhat thin and gaunt, dressed in a fine, thick wool overcoat and holding a brass-handled cane. His complexion was ruddy, but a few white strands streaked the hair at his temples. He was a middle-aged man who looked slightly old for his years.
He stopped before the abandoned yard at No. 37 Pine Resin Alley, raised his head, and slowly surveyed the dilapidated house before him.
The old wooden attic had grown even more rundown than before. He let out a soft sigh, a trace of nostalgia showing in his eyes.
Then he stepped over the withered weeds and entered the yard.
The long-broken, creaking wooden door was jammed in its frame. He did not reach out to push it, merely gazing at it calmly.
Creeeak-
A teeth-grating scrape rang out. As though an invisible hand were controlling it, the broken door eerily slid inward on its own, opening a narrow gap.
He stepped slowly inside.
The house