There once sat an old house with wide eyes, arched and brimming with memories. Alive, a roll of home films etched moment-to-moment into its bones. Now it sits empty, a shell barren of sound and emotion.
In the highest room there sits an ancient wooden chair that rocks. Sitting motionless on uneven floors, remaining breaths give it slight creaks forward and back without warning.
The walls, thick and wounded, remember each mark, invisible fingerprint, and resting palm. They are a fractured emanation of absorbed sounds and keepers of silence. Hidden in the ceilings are remembrance of cherished cries, laughter and whispers. Songs of their family. Floors made of wood worn from tiny crawling legs, dancing feet, and shoes of all sizes. Pockmarks of a life being lived.
That family is gone now. The house has become a place of shadow spirits and slivers of light. The outside creeps inwards to split its seams, a superfluous world to what it once held.