The door yawns open—
its hinges groan like old bones.
Dust blooms in the light,
a ghost of every footstep
that once passed through.
The walls inhale,
exhaling the scent of old wood,
something sour, something lost.
Wallpaper peels like dead skin,
exposing the raw ribs of the house.
In the kitchen, the table waits,
a chair slightly askew—
as if someone had just left,
as if they might return.
A single cup, cracked,
lingers in the sink,
stained with ghosts of coffee,
lips that once pressed its rim.
The stairs creak beneath my weight—
not in protest,
but in recognition.
They know me.
They remember.
Upstairs, the air thickens,
choked with the weight of silence.
A door stands half-open,
swollen with time,
holding its echoes close.
The bed is made,
but the sheets lie stiff with dust.
A shirt drapes over the chair,
sleeves limp, reaching—
but for no one.
I reach out, fingers grazing glass—
a shadow stirs in the corner of my eye,
but when I turn, nothing waits for me.
Only absence.
Only the house, patient, watching.
I swallow,
but the house does not.
It keeps everything.
It keeps them.
I turn to leave—
but the walls hold their breath.
They know.
I will come back.
I always do.
