An old house before me, derelict, yet somehow enticing me to enter the gaping hole, once a door.
I touched the doorframe, long gone any sign of paint. The roughness tells me of long years past, of many hands that passed this way.
The gentle darkness beckons. The sound of a creak, the thought of many feet having trod.
A trace of dankness fills the air. The smells of cooking from a wood stove though long unused. The hint of families long gone lingers, apparitions of times shared.
A house, old, lacking care yet with the spirit of many lives.
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