Memories of a house

As a child we frequently visited the home mum grew up in. I felt like an outsider there. Especially during the evening, after the sun had set and darkness washed over. The lightless staircases seemed longer to climb, the empty rooms filled with an eerie yearning. Even the prayer room, haunted by eyes of the many sculptures and photos of deities. To me, mum’s home was just an old house… tormented by the memories of once being alive, it bellows a swan song as time seals its fate.


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