The House

The sun dreams of her bed and begins her descent. The man wipes his brow and looks around. Everyone else is gone. They have been gone for a long time now, but he refuses to give up. He knows that when it's finished, this plot of empty will hold a house. A house for a family. He committed to this job, and he will finish. The problem is the house itself. It doesn't want to be built. The man packs up his tools and rides off into the darkness and the house frame sighs in relief, when the man's red eyes disappear. Before the sun has has had her morning coffee, the man is back, hammering, drilling, sawing. All the while the house resists. The measured plank wont fit, the nails go missing, the batteries in the drill die. Sometimes the man can actually feel the house leaning away from him. He talks to it, trying to calm it down, aware that if anyone were there he would look crazy, but alone, he's comforted that he can talk to a house if he chooses. He laughs to himself as he realizes that everyone thinks he's nuts anyway, for continuing this long abandoned project. Days pass, weeks. The house continues to resist, sighing when his red lights vanish, and tensely holding its breath when the sun opens her eyes. Some days are better than others, but every day is a struggle. Still the man works. The frame gets finished, then the roof. He knows what he's doing, and he just does it, knowing that this project will be well worth the hardship. He doesn't know that the biggest fear of the house is standing, full, beautiful, and eternally empty.