Ivy clung to the walls of the old house like the drowning man clings to the closest water-bloated corpse in the hope that he might float with it long enough to survive. The walls themselves were held up by the ivy as much as they held the ivy them up, the two in a symbiotic relationship that would end as soon as one collapsed.
The ivy and walls were observed by a long dead man who couldn't stomach the thought of leaving it all behind. He'd grown up here, climbing the walls when they were fit to be climbed and residing within them as his family had done for the last five generations. It would have been six but as soon as he passed, his will had been contested and tossed about between vulture-like cousins many times removed and in the end they chose to let the house rot rather than lose it to a lesser relation.
If he'd been alive enough to have a say, he would have torn it down himself and spared everyone the trouble - spared himself the heartache of seeing his life, and whatever worldly possessions were deemed worthless, all fall to ruin against the harsh storms that hadn't ceased since his passing.
It felt like an omen, like the world itself had decided that this was as good as his afterlife would be.
That until he was able to let go, all he would see it decay.
That he would outlive even the stones.
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