the wind blows (2)

The door creaks as if on the verge of giving up its last ounce of strength. The paint, once white, has surrendered to the elements, peeling back to reveal the naked wood beneath.

Inside, the air is still, yet heavy, as if time itself had grown weary and decided to rest here. A table sits in the center of the room, its surface scarred with the marks of a life once lived.

A single chair lies on its side, a leg splintered. The floorboards groan under the weight of nothing, their voices joining the symphony of decay. A photograph remains on the mantel. The glass is cracked, the frame coated in a thin film of dust.