The old house Oil

There stood a house that must have sprung up all on its own, one morning when no one was looking. A house of pale stone, with a crooked blue roof and black windows for watching the seasons pass without having to say hello.

Nearby, the tree did what it could. It stretched its spindly branches toward the sky, like an old gentleman searching for his glasses against a ceiling that was far too blue. And the sky, for its part, showed no restraint: it splashed everything with blue, green, and white, along with a few drops of yellow sunlight that had fallen there by mistake.

Down below, the flowers had staged a revolution. The yellow ones held the ground, the red ones shouted louder than the rest, and the green ones—vast in number—pretended to keep order. No one believed them.

The house remained quiet amidst this luminous chaos. Perhaps it was abandoned. Perhaps it was waiting for someone. Or perhaps it had simply decided it had had enough of people and now preferred the company of trees, colors, and the wind.