One weathered house interrupts an otherwise quiet row of painted homes. Its upper windows lean inward like narrowed eyes, glowing amber beneath the bent lines of the roof. Below them, splintered porch boards make a row of pointed teeth over the open doorway. A faded red runner spills down the steps and onto the path, completing the impression of a house that has suddenly acquired a face. Peeling clapboard and uneven shingles keep the impossible expression rooted in familiar old materials.

The view sits low across the street, where dry leaves scatter over the dark road. A small red tricycle rests on the untidy lawn, while pumpkins glow beside the neighbouring doors. Those tidy houses make the tall central building seem even more crooked and alert. Warm porch light reaches into the blue evening, catching the broken railings and the runner’s worn folds. Bare branches frame the roof against the sky. With no one in the street, the entire scene belongs to the house and its unexpectedly watchful windows.