Scuffs in walls have always interested me. They are both mundane and mysterious in their nature. Perhaps they were made during the process of moving, or while a careless mistake had been made by innocent children.
But perhaps
they were made through mischief and secrets. Perhaps they were made on purpose in an effort to leave a scratch on an already-ruined canvas. Perhaps it was not a mistake at all.
Scuffs on walls are quite similar to scars left on strangers skins; we know not the story behind them or their meaning, whether or not they were made with purpose. All we know is that they are present and that they could be simple or vastly interesting. We know they exist, and that is enough.