Musty and damp, rotten floorboards and detritus scattered about where it had been left a lifetime ago. Chairs askew at an old mahogany table, an old newspaper telling yesteryears’ forgotten news, shouting about things that had happened and foretelling things that never would.

The calendar with those infernal lists was still hanging on the hook by the door where it had menaced her as a child.

Stupid lists.

An organised way to categorise your failures.

According to those she had lived with there were many; books written without ever using words. Silence, glares, accusations and cold quiet breaths left out in the air to be interpreted and wringed out in fraught night time twisted sheets.

They were always looking backwards, searching for the pain around the joy, tearing the petals from flowers and then grinding the pollen between their fingers, only to complain about the yellow stains it made.

Freedom always comes at a cost, but staying really hadn’t been an option either. Enough people left in the village had given in to this house and were no longer around to witness her being there. They were gone, their trinkets and treasures always so highly valued by her family, shrines to the gone. None of them were going to bring anyone back.

Raising the creaking blinds and opening dusty windows finally let in light after a lifetime of closure.

The place still felt dark.

Image: https://www.stockvault.net/photo/175056/lockhouse-staircase-sleeping-quarters