Somewhere in the Belgian countryside I visit an abandoned farm house. As so often in these locations, time has been frozen the moment the last inhabitant left the property for the final and last time.
A news paper with yesterdays news. A made up bed and a partly set dining table tell their story in silence while the decay slowly progresses.
In the attic a lonely chair with an empty bottle suggests that ones the owner found a moment of piece and quiet here. Staring out over de fields through the attic window.
The kitchen is definitely not ready for preparing another meal. The pots and pans are rusted and the fine china is worse for ware.
The last users of the baby chair has long since been potty trained, no doubt having children of their own by now.
The downstairs hallway features an ironing board set in the yellow-ish hallway. The colours are accentuated by the sunlight that penetrates through a sky light.
The beds are made up and I get the eerie feeling that someone can walk in the room at any moment to take a nap.
If they do, their feet will stay warm during the winters cold. Courtesy of the thick sheep rug.