Three houses stand at the end of SA-Strasse, each infected with its own strain of guilt. In the first, a couple applies foundation to their faces, pretending toward thinness. Their son scratches red lesions on his arms.
In the second, a religious teacher grades papers with sleepy fingers. Her husband, fevered and shivering, lay in their shared bed. Yesterday, he cut down a 200-year-old nut tree.
In the third house, a dwarf widow tends quietly to her wounds. Her eyes drawn to the fourth house that stands between them all
—watching, always watching.
The Fourth House
The fourth house holds no human life.
