I know every single inch of this house. This house and the objects in it are like a picture.
Everything is in the same place… standing absolutely still… decaying and getting older.
Sure, once in a while someone opens up a window. The sunlight gets in and the air is renewed however… standing still objects inside the decaying house… don’t get your hopes too high.
No one will be moving in and once that window is closed again everything will return to what it always was.
I visit that house many times and I remember every single object. I remember how my grand father used to hang his shirts behind the bedroom door, they’re still there.
I remember my grandmother’s old pots. I remember I hated the bathtub texture for being so harsh and I’ve always loved the kittens painting.
I’m connected to that house in many ways. What once was alive and filled with joy is now just waiting to… vanish.
Memories are a good thing. They are like little trips to what once was, an escape, but as that house decays, so do I. Some things are already broken beyond repair.