"No one comes on this earth to stay. Our bodies are like rose trees. They grow petals then wither and die. But our hearts are like grass in the springtime: they live on and forever grow green again."

An Aztec poem, originally written in Nahuatl

When he reached the end of the road, he cursed three times. Firstly, to whoever invented flip flops. Secondly, to whoever had decided in a fit of spite to make this road a cobbled street. Thirdly, to whatever twist of fate had caused him to wear flip flops while walking on said cobbled street.

This was the price, he concluded, of being a major in Ancient History. They sent you out to backwaters where a change in the weather could only be interpreted as an inevitable sign of the impending apocalypse. All because of some footnote at the bottom of a page that mentioned some old woman who lived centuries ago and some vague connection she had to the Hunger Games (Ancient History Unit 2).

He consulted his maps, but there was small comfort there. No mention of her or her house anywhere. Nothing in the north, south, east or west of the area, or in any of the combinations of the four. Maybe there was no house anymore. Maybe they knocked it down to build a subway.

He was loathe to ask for directions, but circumstances left him no choice. He could hardly leave empty-handed.

"Excuse me!" The man walked on by without acknowledging him. Rude.

"Hey! Hey! Hey you! Can you help?" The man looked from side to side, as if guessing he might be talking to somebody else. "Yeah, you! Can you give me directions?"

"Where'd you wanna go?"

He showed him the maps. "Leah Wishart. She has a house. Somewhere in this- this district, she has a house."

"No she doesn't."

"That's not what my textbook says!" The student challenged him shoving the footnote aggressively in his face.

"Ohh that. Yeah. See, she has a house, but it's not like a house house."

"What do you mean it's not a house house?"

"It doesn't actually exist. And neither does she."

The student's mouth slipped open. I've come all this way- freakin' five hundred miles- for a fictional character?!

"But-but why is she in a footnote in my history textbook if she's not real?"

"It's just a saying. Part of our local culture, you know, stories and stuff. Loads of people around here are called Wishart; Leah's a really common name too. Folks like to joke that they're her children."

"What, so she's like Santa Claus? Or the tooth fairy?"

"Sort of. Only don't expect to give you any presents or take your teeth."

"She sucks."

"Hey!" The stranger was stern, sharp. "Don't judge, tourist."

"Well, what's she supposed to do? What's she even for?"

"Again, stories, sayings, that sort of stuff. When you're up against a wall and you know you have to up the ante or get knocked down, you say you're building her house."

"But what's the whole deal with her house anyway?"

"Come on, I'll show you something." At first the student was wary of trusting this persistent stranger, but he decided in the end to follow him. He had ways of protecting himself, he was a fast runner. And at least if he was mugged he'd have something to talk about when he got home, even if he did need therapy for it.

He followed the man through the town; and together they walked along street after street until they came to a high bridge arching monumentally over a road that zoomed down the hill.

"Let's play a game," the stranger said. "You like games?"

"Children's games? Count me out."

"Too bad, we're playing. It's like I Spy." The stranger pointed at the bakery across the street. "That's her kitchen." He pointed at the sign for the reservoir. "That's the way to her sink." He pointed to the library. "That's her bookshelf."

"That's her television!" The student said sarcastically, gesturing at the cinema.

"See? You're getting the hang of this." There was a long awkward pause. The student was about to leave, when the stranger spoke again.

"That's her ceiling." He pointed his finger erect to the sky. "That's her carpet." He tipped it down and across to the grass by the sidewalks. He pointed at the sign for the cemetery. "That's her cradle."

"This is her home. Santa Claus has his grotto and his toy factory. The tooth fairy's got her castle. Leah Wishart doesn't have a home. So we live in it instead. Because if you have nowhere to go, you might as well go anywhere. And if you have nowhere to live, you might as well live everywhere."

The student had not moved. "Mighty fine." He acknowledged grudgingly.

"Indeed it is. Mighty fine."