Painted white, and in perfect repair, the fence was what drew me in. The building, like all those in the area was dilapidated. Cladding gaping, glass panes missing, broken downpipes, sagging roofline, the surrounds a jungle. The fence was by no means new. Plants and weeds had tangled around the palings, but the paint couldn't have been more than a season old. No fading or flaking. The gate, locked with a simple padlock, showed no sign of wear, and the shiny hinges were free of rust. Too low to bar entry, I leaned my bicycle against it and climbed over.
Written for Friday Fictioneers,