On a street in Paris, there was a small building. The sort of place that was sold to tourists for weeks at a time. It sat on the outskirts of the city, far enough away not to bother the locals, but close enough to let the travellers make their way deeper in. There, they could marvel at the sights, taste the historic food of the famous city, mingle with the locals and enjoy that particular atmosphere of culture and refinement which was so unique to the French.
Hopefully all while spending a great deal of money.
It had been empty for the last few weeks, ever since the last family to rent it had had to rush back home so very suddenly – something about ‘’financial difficulties’’ but that was about to change with the arrival of a rented van.
It was dark and late at night as the passengers disembarked, they were tired from a long trip. They had come from Singapore, which was a multiple-hour trip followed by the can journey. To say that they were spent would be an understatement. They were exhausted, their energy depleted by the trip and by the flight. Usually, they would be only too happy to fall into the waiting beds, sleeping deeply until the morning when they could finally begin their week-long vacation.