If I ever write a story it will start like this.
The little building, square, squat, red tiles on its roof, had sat on the same patch of land for longer than anyone knew.
There were houses across the way, a park behind. Someone at some time had even decided to build a railway that hadn?t been used in many years. Wild plants and weeds grew up from the stones along the tracks but the lawn around the building was neat. Aldon Fishely, who lived had lived in number 29 for most of his life, thought he saw someone mow it every now and then, maybe they had a blue truck, maybe it was black. His eyes weren?t so good and on dark days it was hard for him to tell.
The only sign of aging on the little building was the peeling remnants of letters above the green door. ?Department Of? was all they said, the second line long gone.
All of this had gone unnoticed for a very long time.
That is, until James saw the building. For James was a ten year old boy, and ten year old boys notice many things that others choose not to.