life as poems 'n letters

There once stood a house with many windows—large, open ones that let sunlight pour in, falling softly on wooden floors.

The building stood proudly at the end of a forgotten road. Vines clung to its walls like stubborn memories. The plants persisted, even now, after everything.

This house once brimmed with life—the kind that makes noise. The kind that echoes with children’s laughter down hallways too small for their dreams, that smells of breakfast and old blankets.

It grew, rather than being merely built.

Every wall, floorboard, and creaking stair held memories of those who built them, walked on them, and spoke into them.

This is where all they all grew up. They woke to the clinking of spoons and Sunday mornings, after falling asleep to lullabies from weary mouths.

And the house listened. Through voices both soft and loud, it listened.

It heard the slow unraveling, words spoken too harshly and words left unsaid. It heard the stinging silence. It heard the quiet after slammed doors and turned backs. Through thin bedroom walls, it heard midnight tears. It heard whispered confessions into pillows.

It witnessed the drift—how two people could share a room yet become strangers.

When no one looked, the house watched dreams silently slip from shelves. It saw hearts grow weary, one after another. The house knew, though no one acknowledged it. It made no judgments. It simply remained.

Now the curtains hang still. Time has clouded the windows. The air holds its breath.

Yet the plants persist, still trying, still leaning toward the last light—as if unaware they’ve been forgotten.

And the house lives on. Not loudly, just enough to survive. Enough to remember.

No one comes anymore. Not at all.

Except for one.

Never staying long.

Perhaps they lived here. Or perhaps they loved someone who did.

They don’t repaint, fix, or clean. They come only to visit the past, to see if the walls remember. And somehow, they always do.

This house— It might have forgotten its name. But not the sound of love. Not the scent of rainy days. Not the gentle forgiveness of lullabies.

It remains, breathing still, still listening.

Even now, even after the story changed.

Even when everyone else forgot it was ever home.