The house had always seemed solid.

Safe.

Dependable.

There in summer or spring or mean winter.

All she needed to do was to make a choice for it.

And it was always yes. The seeking of a shelter made what little haven there was away from the rain was a reason to be grateful. She would just close her eyes and give in to the warmth. Today, it was still raining. It was still cold. But it was different. She had never noticed the cracks. Were they new? She ran her fingers along the hair line breadth trails running across. They seemed few and small and far apart at first. But the tracing went on and on. Crisscrossing, parallel, spiraling – some shallow and straight, others deep and intricate, but all inexorably linked. There was no start or end, and before she knew it, she had gone round.

Had these always been here?

Had they always been so obvious?

Had she never noticed because this was her something to hold on to?

Something crumbling was, after all, still something.