There’s a glasshouse on a hill.
People pass by and appreciate its beauty.
They wonder though why it remains empty.
Some visit the space from time to time.
Checking what’s inside.
They come along but they always realise the glasshouse seems so cold to stay overnight.
Until one time a young man with a lamp barged in.
The glasshouse was used to gentle knocks but not by visitors with flames within.
Surprised the glasshouse opened all of its doors.
Defying the flames that melt the icy corridors.
Warmth and light illuminated the walls, ceiling and floor.
The village rejoiced.
Alas the glasshouse turned from shades of white and blue to a spectrum of hues.
Everyone noticed, everyone cheered.
But the lamp he brought wasn’t meant for a long term thing.
Like some who tried to reached the top of the hill, they turn their back once the fire needs a little more effort to sustain its constant heating.
Despite the glasshouse’s yearning, it cannot force anyone to stay on top of the hill.
The glasshouse was left with nothing but cracks out of collission of fire and ice.
The seasson will change and snow will fill the cracks or hope to find a way to let all the ice go.
Until then this glasshouse will mourn on top.
Awaiting for a strong hunter to roam.
Hoping the next will be more than just a pit stop.
Until the day this glasshouse turns into someone’s home.