It was a dead house, slowly crumbling, drying up and blowing away in an almost visible process. Shingles and broken window panes lay in shattered patterns across dead black grass that rose from white earth. Bits of trash slowly blew over them, moving constantly but never actually leaving the yard.
From a tree whose leaves glowed red against a bile-yellow sky a mourning dove descended to hobble down the driveway. The plain greyness of the bird would have brought a moment of relief to an observer, until it blinked up at him with eyes of glistening white.
At the end of the driveway there was a sign:
TOO LATE
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