The cobblestoned street glistened with rain. Dark clouds hung above the medieval city of York. But the houses on this street have seen it all before.
They have seen the streets covered in pig’s blood when it was a meat market, with the smell of death lingering in the air. They have seen people hiding, whispering prayers to a different kind of God than they used to believe in.
They have seen the same people being murdered on this street, their God not helping them while their bones were broken, throats were cut and their heads were smashed in. They have seen kings and queens, dressed in fine silk, walk on the very same streets. The blood washed off their royal hands, now adorned with diamond and golden rings.
They have seen an empire rise, and an empire fall. They have seen times change completely. They have seen people born, people grow old and people die. They have stood here ever since. Unchanged, unmoving, but bending. So much so that some of them even appear like the old people they have seen countless times walking across the old streets below them.
A few more centuries, and they would touch each other. Could they call it kissing? Maybe. They would have to find out. Windows touching walls, rooftiles kissing windows. Or maybe the people who lived inside of them, the ones with such fleeting lives, would stop them from further bending. Despite their short lives, they were inventive and innovative. After all, they invented them: The ancient houses on the Shambles.
Most of them have stood here since the 14th century. And maybe they would stay here for another six hundred years. Like everything they have seen, they knew one thing for certain. Time would tell, and time revealed all things.
Fabian's Writing 