A breeze whistles through the bare window frames. A loose corner of a corrugated roof sheet taps out a steady rhythm. The house was once someone's pride and joy as they watched brick being placed on brick. It became their refuge, a place of belonging. It was the destination sought when heading home, a place where birthdays and holidays were celebrated. Close your eyes and listen for the sounds of yesteryear: the early morning rustlings of a family rising to face the day, the creak of wooden floorboards and the squeak of hinges from the now absent doors. The bark of a family dog as a car rattles past on the corrugated road, the laughter of children playing in the yard. These sounds have long faded. Only memories remain, echoes of a time when the house had the heartbeat of life. Now a decaying ruin, its stories retold from elsewhere.