Fading Ink, Lasting Words
The letters fade, half-swallowed by brick and time. Once, they promised something—tea, tobacco, tailoring—back when words painted high on a wall could sell a life. Now, the ghost writing lingers, barely legible, a whisper of a transaction long since closed. The paint peels, the mortar cracks, but the name remains, stubborn as memory.
Advertising has moved on, traded brick for screens, brushstrokes for pixels. No one looks up anymore. But here, in Hampstead, on a street where the past still clings, the old words refuse to disappear. They are worth nothing now, which makes them priceless.