PHOTO PROMPT © Sarah Potter
The shed door opens under a well-placed kick, the padlock holding solid as the rusted hinges give out.
Inside spades, forks, a wheel barrow with a flat tyre, liquid in a lemonade bottle that smells like turpentine.
In a web strung corner I find a pair of shoes – they’re muddy, worn low at the heel, but once I send the current residents skittering, they fit well enough.
I look up at the house as I leave – sooty, broken glass in the window frames, paint peeling. The mouldering remnants of a house, forgotten and unloved.
I know how it feels.