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There once was a man who feared loss more than he loved gain.

He spent his life designing a house that could never be entered without his consent, nor breached by time, thief, or flame.

He built it upon a hill of bedrock, with walls of tempered steel wrapped in stone. Every door required a hundred keys; every window was sealed with glass thicker than a man’s arm. He dug moats, wired alarms, forged codes that no mind but his could decipher.

When it was done, he stood before the gates of his fortress — the safest dwelling in all the world.

Then he realized he owned nothing worth protecting. Still, he filled its rooms with emptiness, sealed the locks, and stood guard for the rest of his days, proud that no one could ever steal his nothing.

Years passed. The wind grew quiet around the hill. Travelers came and marveled at the walls, asking, “What treasure lies within?”

And the man, from behind his iron gates, would whisper, “Security itself.”

But when at last he died, the locks rusted, the alarms fell silent, and the house remained — perfect, impenetrable, and hollow. No one entered. No one needed to.

For within those invincible walls slept nothing at all — and nothing, at last, was perfectly safe.

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