The tiny house sat upon an equally tiny rock out in the tumultuous sea. Apart from the house there was only room for three cobbled stones of a path and a rather scrawny tree. The water so regularly curled up around the house that it had turned quite white from the salty shock. On the days the dark waves crashed against the stone no one came wandering by in their boats, and Mr Hempton climbed the stairs and stayed in the top attic room, lest the water creep into the house and wet his toes. On sunnier days he would lounge in the parlour, feet up against the sparkling fire, which sent corkscrews of blue smoke up to join the every-changing clouds.