At the end of my street, on the way up the mountain, there is a little blue house. It looks like a place for storing things but someone actually lives there. We passed it at the start of our walk this morning and noticed that the door was open and inside we saw a bed.
An old man lives there and we often see him sitting on the little bench outside his little blue house. Perhaps he is related to the people who live in a big house on the other side of the street and his home is a ‘granny’ annexe, or grandfather annexe in this case.
Behind his house there is another little house but it is not as colorful as the little blue house. It is partially painted in the same color so maybe another relative lives there and they shared the paint but there wasn’t enough to decorate both little houses.
The tall person told me that everything has a story to tell to a passer-by but many people don’t pause to listen and hurry on by and miss hearing many wonderous tales.