A "cottage" stood abandoned in the resort. It got its name from the fact that the building stood on concrete legs that once served as a garage for a car.
Because he had a unique appearance, no one to talk to, and his tired, sickly old master hadn't opened the door to him in years, he felt very lonely and useless.
One night he decided to move on. He stretched his concrete legs until he managed to pull them out of the ground and set off. By morning, the nearby cottages were wondering where their neighbour had disappeared.
He walked, he walked, and then he came to a fork in the road. There he had a choice: to continue on the smooth asphalt road, or to take the giddy dirt road, or back the way he came. He had no intention of turning back. If he had come this far, he wanted to see the world and make friends.
The smooth road must lead to the right place, he thought, so he set off on it.
After two days of weary trekking, he arrived in a brightly lit city. He anchored near three sky-scraping tower blocks, and after a rest, he wanted to talk to them. But they had their gables so high that he could not reach them.
The next day people came. They were looking around, discussing something, and then a pile of earth rolled up and wanted to demolish the house, which looked too old-fashioned, too old-fashioned. It didn't fit in with the neat, modern look of the landscape. Fortunately, the decision was made too late, and the workers were too late in the afternoon to start demolition, so the cottage was moved at night.
He went back to the fork in the road. He thought if he took the dirt road, he might find friends at the end of it.
The girbegurba, muddy road led to a poor village. Tiled houses were lined up next to each other. They looked fearfully at the stranger from far away. Their modesty forbade them to speak to him. The cottage took the initiative, but there was no one to befriend him.
The village fool was about to set it on fire, so as not to show off among the other poor huts, when the cottage returned to the fork in the road.
He was on his way home. After seven days, on a moonlit night, he arrived back at the resort. The pits where his feet had been had been overgrown with weeds, but after a little adjustment they had settled back into their old places.
In the morning, the neighbouring houses were quite astonished. Did they dream that he had gone and returned to their circle?! Their doors and window sills waved in a friendly manner, as if to let him know that they missed him and were glad to have him back.
The footstool felt it was appropriate. It felt good to be on his own property, among old friends. And then another pleasant surprise came. A car braked in front of the entrance, and the old owner's children and grandchildren came through the door. From their conversation he understood that they were on holiday, but before that they were going to paint the walls.
The footstool was happy, and no longer understood how it had gone out into the world. Why he thought there was a better place in the world than the stationary.
