What drew me in? I am not quite sure. There is nothing really extraordinary about the building, or her surroundings. The glass is mostly gone, a few rippled panes hang onto time frozen windows. The roof is nearly rusted through, the old corrugated tin is slowly returning to its elemental state. The front door is a mere formality at this point. It will not hold back an intruder, it will not shield anything from summer's heat or winter's icy gale. Why am I drawn to such decay?Back in my truck I pass a dozen white farmhouses surrounded by picket fences and summer flowers. They don't draw me in. What continues to capture me is the search for the lost. The lost story.
