There was a little house on the top of the hill. Nobody knew how long it had been there. Normally, they ignored it, but sometimes at night when the regulars left the pub, stumbling home to their beds, they stopped and looked at the little house on the top of the hill.
And they wondered what it was all about.
The house was broken down, abandoned, and none of them could ever remember anybody living in it. They had no idea who owned it, either. Some of the windows were smashed, whether from the harsh winds that blew past or stones thrown by generations of local kids. Plants had grown up the sides of the house and taken over the walls for their own ends. The paintwork on the door was faded and peeling, and the name could no longer be read. There were nests on the roof, in the places where it had not fallen in.
The regulars, free from the constraints of everyday issues in their intoxicated state, wondered who the invisible builder was; who the missing occupant was; who the uncaring owner was. They thought about how sad the little house on the top of the hill looked, and then they started stumbling again on their journeys back to their own homes.
They unlocked their handsome front doors, walked into their tidy houses, and climbed into their comfortable beds.
And each regular, as they drifted off to sleep, wondered what they were all about. Like the little house on the top of the hill, abandoned and falling apart, they thought about their own invisible creator, and felt a pang of sympathy for the little house on the top of the hill.