The pickles and chutneys were lined up on the window sill, a curtain pulled over them. Occasionally, a light shone from the inside of the house. Sometime, she noticed that one of the jars had disappeared, leaving a gap, only to be replaced again by another, fresh jar. No matter what, they were always there.
She passed the house, which was tired with peeling paint every day. And the jars on the windowsill were a regular feature, although she was never quite sure about why they were there.
The others gathered dust as the days passed. The layers of grime grew thicker. The pickles remained on the window sill and no lights shone from within the house.