The Old House And Her

Walls and walls, winding and whispering, worried and worn. A single flower, fiery and rouge, sways to the left of the outside steps — a fighter amongst the weeds. The front door is towering with a powerful presence, enveloping the visitor with its webs and woe. It creaks open, breathing life back into the forgotten. Her eyes enter first, wary and ready to shut with shock. The body follows, hastily and hot. 

The cold has left the house feeling empty, almost unnerving. The eeriness shut the warmth out, left the last bit of life with that single flower. This life has potential to grow or wilt, to spread into the hallways and the doorways. The old house speaks with silence, telling a story only some people knew, and will ever know. It is people that create a home — with their voices, personalities and auras. Our souls are lightbulbs.

The grand staircase now sits lonely — not scary, just sad. In another lifetime, the piano playing would have accompanied the route up the stairs as fingers traced the detail in the rich oak. There is no music now with her presence, not in this lifetime. Time must have softened the songs. 

Are old souls awakening now? Dust-covered photo frames map these souls, hold them to this house — to living rooms that have lost their laughter and bedrooms that have passed their passion. She waited for a sign, but the silence continued to echo. Louder and louder. 

In the old house, she walked the line between the otherworldly and us. It was a feeling with no explanation, no concrete evidence, no keepsakes. She just knew there was a life beyond the one that she could comprehend, so she gave one last glance, creaked the door closed again and said goodbye to the flower. 

Six goodbyes followed her exit, but she had no idea. And when she was completely out of sight, her silhouette lost to the woodland, the piano started to play. As it always did at this time of the day. 

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