Upon opening the great oak door,
a warmth greeted me.

There, inside the room devoid of any souls but my own,
sat a single desk neath the lonely window
&
the counterpart chair tucked between its legs.

The fire lowly roared,
its flame filling the room with soft beams of light
escaping through the window.

As I close the door behind me, the latch clicking shut,
I notice a journal, tattered and aged,
beside a pen and jar of ink.

The journal empty
the pen worn from more hands than one.

I pull out the chair, its feet vibrating against the floor
the sound reverberating off the walls
echoing into the vaulted ceiling.

I held the pen, and dipped it into the ink
black as coal, and stained the pages
with my reflections.

Memories.