ABANDONED

Let me take you on a journey, a journey back in time, to a place, a house, a house of memories. Such places have a story to tell to anyone who cares to listen, so bear with me.

Our journey begins at the end of a cul-de-sac in a quiet nondescript neighborhood. Here stands a house bearing the weight of memories within its weathered walls. The front yard once meticulously tended, has grown wild with overgrown shrubs and untrimmed grass, hinting at a long absence of care. Layers of accumulated dust and grime coat windows, once gleaming with life, now lifeless and opaque, obscuring the view into the dwelling.

Stay with me as we go inside. Entering is like stepping into a time capsule frozen in an unknown era. The air hangs heavy with the scent of old books and faded memories. In the living room, a worn-out armchair sits by the fireplace, its fabric threadbare from years of use. Next to it stands a side table adorned with a floral patterned teapot and a collection of mismatched cups—a testament to a fondness for afternoon tea sessions, perhaps shared with close friends or cherished family.

Look around you. Faded photographs adorn the walls, capturing moments of joy and laughter. One in particular, a portrait of a younger couple in happier times smiles back from a silver frame on the mantelpiece. Their eyes sparkle with shared dreams and promises of forever. Yet, the absence of a wedding band on the man’s finger and the weathered edges of the photograph suggest that life has taken its toll, leaving behind remnants of a once bright blooming love.

There is a door left ajar in a corner of this room. As we go through, we find ourselves in the kitchen. Here, the faint aroma of spices and aged recipes still lingers. A cookbook, tattered and well-used, lies open on the counter, pages marked with handwritten notes and splatters of ingredients. Overhead, the shelves still hold an assortment of spices from around the world, hinting at a desire for adventure and a taste for exotic flavors. An apron hangs on a hook by the door, as if recently hung there, stained with memories of countless culinary experiments and shared meals.

Did you notice the staircase around the corner in the room we left? Upstairs, a bedroom whispers stories of solace and introspection. The bed, perfectly made but untouched, faces a window overlooking the garden—a sanctuary for quiet contemplation. A writing desk nestles in a corner bearing witness to countless hours spent pouring thoughts onto paper. Ink-stained journals stacked on a shelf chronicle the innermost musings of a soul seeking understanding and meaning in the mundanity of existence.

In a corner of the bedroom, by the window, is another door. It’s closed, but inside is another staircase, less ornate than the one we climbed up to get here. It leads up to the attic. Here, among forgotten treasures and dusty boxes, lie remnants of hobbies long abandoned. An easel stands in one corner, surrounded by half-finished canvases capturing moments of raw emotion and untold stories. A guitar rests against an old amplifier, its strings rusted now, but still resonant, whispering melodies left unplayed for too long.

It’s getting late now, and it’s time to go. As the sun begins its descent, casting long shadows through the windows, the house remains silent, holding onto the echoes of life once lived. Each item left behind is a testament to the person who called this house home—a soul now immortalized in the artifacts of a life left behind.