The door is red, her favourite colour. Well, no. Pink is, but she’d be damned if the whole neighbourhood whispered remarks about a pink door. They already made remarks about the garden. Good ones, but still. Indeed, a realtor or two have called and made offers on the house in the past based on her splendid garden. So, red it is, as it is a more normal colour, and more pleasing against the house’s rocky façade.

However, they’ve never stepped past that quirky red door, now, have they. The house is a landmark because of it. “Go to XYZ Street and look for a red door. You can’t miss it.” And they don’t. Good scavengers. And then some of them go in, and suddenly you can see their discomfort at the sheer density pressing in on them. They don’t want to touch a thing in fear that they’ll break something precious. It’s a house of fragile thing upon fragile thing next to fragile thing: memories of decades past, souvenirs from past travels, collections of whatsits, and visible manifestations of passing attachments. They think they’ve walked into a museum curated by a staunchly clean but all-too-disorderly woman. It’s a mess of tastes, of things that don’t belong together, of things that swallow each other worse than a baroque décor would ever hope to do.

It’s obvious upon their faces, what they think. Sometimes they’ll even whisper it in confidence so she doesn’t hear. But the others who dwell within this red-doored house often do, and swallow their tongues and let her reign over her kingdom of things because, somehow, being surrounded thus is, sadly, the only thing that comforts her in this harsh, harsh world that doesn’t understand her. They, also sadly, continue to slowly be eaten alive by this fenced clean mess that weighs heavily upon their hearts.