The Old House

He noticed it every day he walked down the road. It was older than any of the other houses or flats. It was out of place between the 60's and 70's architecture and those properties that had suffered recent renovations at the hands of DIY enthuisiasts. This house was from another time, it was aged but cared for and he noticed it every day as he walked down the road.

It wasn't just the house that he noticed. It was the face of a young boy pressed up against the window. He was there every day staring out, waiting for someone, for something. It was an odd look. Slightly dated with a hair style you didn't really see too often anymore. Unless it was one of those retro styles that were making a comeback but anyway, the point is, that the young boys framed face was there in the window at the same time every day that he walked down the street.

Nothing else on the street remained constant. New people moved in and others moved out. There were more cars and more noise. Sometimes it was hard to find space on the pavement for the number of people dashing about. But whatever else was happening the boys face never seemed to change, his stare cutting through the bodies and lives of those outside.

He would never know what made him pause that day. Perhaps it was the pram blocking the path but whatever it was it meant he heard the conversation.

"Such a shame."
"They should do something with it, it's an eyesore on the street."
"It does make you wonder why no one has ever built on it."
"Mrs Edgar says it was where the bomb actually fell. Most of this area was destroyed."
"I still don't understand why they don't build on it and finish the street."
"It's such a horrible story though isn't it. A young boy waiting for his Father to come back on leave. The Father staying in the pub instead of going straight home. The boy waiting in the house instead of going to the shelter."
"I'd have hated to be that Father, that's the sort of thing that would haunt you for ever."