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The factory had been abandoned many years ago. Nobody made anything anymore, especially out here. One wall was missing entirely, the roof was scorched, and the concrete blackened. The remains of a chain-link fence lay on the ground, hidden amongst the weeds that had cracked the street.
The row of houses were further along. They had once been cared for, but now the small gardens were overgrown, the paintwork peeling, and tiles were missing from the roof. Some had boarded up windows; others had no windows at all. A plant, a creeper of some kind, rose up to one of these gaps, disappearing inside, like a finger rising from the soil and invading the mouth of the house, ready to pull it down. And Rodin knew that, eventually, this was exactly what would happen.
These houses had been
