the wind blows (5)

He reaches the house and hesitates. His hand lingers on the doorknob, fingers trembling slightly. Finally, he pushes the door open, the creak echoing through the empty rooms.

He steps inside and pauses, as if listening for something only he can hear. The photograph on the mantel catches his eye. He moves toward it, his footsteps careful and deliberate. He picks it up, brushing away the dust with his thumb.

A flicker of recognition crosses his face. He sets the photograph back down, precisely as it was. “You still here?” he asks, his voice low but steady. There is no reply, only the soft groan of the house settling.