When she reached the very tip top of the mountaintop, she found a house. It was not a neat and sturdy house. It was a rickety shack of a house -- barely big enough for a single room, with large cracks in the walls and no chimney to funnel smoke. It was the kind of house that had been clearly abandoned long ago, left to nature to tear apart, bit by bit, with wind and rain and snow and sleet. Even the sun had assisted in the house's slow destruction, fading away any traces of what might once have been paint on the walls, leaving it all a dingy, depressing grey.
The sole window had long ago lost its glass, and the poet would have turned and walked away right then, seeing that house -- if she hadn't also seen a dark shadow of a body inside, walking back and forth, back and forth, past the open window.