Roof tiles press across the top of the frame. Below them a row of red wooden doors stands closed, and the paper panes glow yellow, as if warmed from inside. The late afternoon light sweeps at an angle across the lattice, leaving a thin shadow in every split in the grain. The earth of the yard is dry.
Doors are made to open and close. The doors of this house have been used so long that the lower boards are worn redder than the upper ones, and the ironwork has darkened with rust, setting the red of the wood a shade deeper. The carpenter's skill remains in the pattern of the lattice.
Human time remains as shallow dents at the height where hands once reached. The work of preserving old houses usually drifts toward the story of columns and roofs, but it is this wood that was pushed and pulled several times a day.
Look again at the far right. Low vents are cut into the white stone below the base, and two of them are black in the shape of a cross. Even a locked house breathes beneath its floor.
In the earthen yard, a single square stone slab lies half buried. Someone must have stepped there on the way up to the door.
If the light tilts a little further, that red will be gone. Before it does, pick a single door and look at how far up the lower boards have worn.
