I’ve searched for years for the perfect house. Now, perhaps, I’ve found it. The problem is that, although it's clearly unoccupied, there are no obvious signs that it's for sale.
When I enquire into its ownership or history the locals make their excuses and leave, or change the subject. All I can glean is that it once belonged to a reclusive old woman. Sure, it's in grave need of repair, but the location is perfect. It sits in a clearing in the wood and is constructed from an array of materials not typical of this, or any other, region.
Dusk is turning into dark when I visit my dream cottage to find some clues to its past; somewhere in the long-neglected shrubbery, I imagine I hear a cat miaowing mournfully, perhaps pining for its long-lost mistress.
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