This old armchair sits in a shed. It rocks quietly, maybe, when the heavy door is shut.
I took photos when I went back. I was careful not to fall in the Well. There were timbers over the top and it might not be that safe.
The chair was heavy. With dust. With someone still there.
There is a wood stove in the corner, drums and white buckets. Gas bottles, they're everywhere.
Stories like lead. They sink.
They take you deep
There are footprints in the dust