We explore. It is ruined, and left for dead on the side of the road. Beams exposed to the sky allow the sun through, casting long, truncating shadows across the foundations. A Belfast sink squats in the dirt, covered in cobwebs and dust. It is inaccessible from outside, the interior only glimpsed through fissures in the walls, allowing a view into the past, or into another world. We may never see it again; tomorrow it might be gone. This was a present, a moment when fiction leaks into our reality, and precisely because it is fleeting, it lingers and burns.