The gnome stood in the garden, a lonely sentinel, a small reminder of the previous owner of the tiny overrun garden that now lay forgotten. The owners of the garden wouldn’t come to this small corner of their vast estate – they simply didn’t care about it. They were more worried about how much money they were making, or how many cars they had. The gnome would never know, its heart long crumbled away just like its paint. It was a loveless, lifeless, colourless shell and all that remained of the vast estate’s golden age, the time before it was all about money or possessions. Without corruption and greed. The gnome was a relic of a past so rich, but he is all that remains, ever watching, ever silent, waiting.

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