More than one hundred years ago, a wealthy Parisian couple paid to have a perpetual grave site at Père-Lachaise cemetery. I know this because of a small bronze plaque attached to the outside of the miniature stone mansion. It also has a weather vane at the top of its second empire Napoleon III mansard roof, signaling to no one that the winds have surely shifted.
The wealthy couple must no longer have any descendants. Their little graveside home, their little retirement kiosk, has gone into disrepair. A tiger-striped cat has made the little Parisian hut his own. He enters through the rusted-out hole in the once elaborate gate. Inside, in the spider-webbed gloom, someone keeps his food and water bowls filled, perpetually.