SOAHK
There is a street called Halloran. It has four houses, and it has three.
No one who lives there set out to tell you about it. They were keeping a count, or feeding a bird, or burying someone, or buying what the grieving would sell — each one there for their own reason, each one getting one small true thing down before the truth went soft in their hands. What you have here is what they left: short accounts, in their own voices, that do not quite agree.
Read them in any order. Follow whoever you like — the woman on the step, the man with the kind face and the shoebox, the child who doesn’t know what the milk is for. Each one shows you a window and closes another. None of them ends the way you want it to.
A warning the street would give you itself, if you walked it: don’t count the houses twice in the one morning. The second count is the one that costs, and it is never you who pays.
Ways in
- Come for the count — the dawn count
- Come for the grief — she is one
- Come for the watching — the ones who come to watch
- Or begin at the street — Halloran
Each account links to the ones it touches, at its foot. Pull a thread and follow it; you will not arrive where you meant to. Or use the search, and let it take you somewhere you did not ask for.
About
A short, honest word on what this is, and who is spinning it.
(One arrives without warning. Leave an address and one will find you — capture pending.)