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Haunting melodies broke through the dusty air fit to bring a tear to any eye, had but one ear been listening. A graceful ballerina made of crystal twinkled in the dark yellow dusk, slowly pirouetting, beauty and grace incased in her frozen lonely frame, her tiny soft sorrowful eyes framed in a face as smooth as ice. That tiny little music box had stood on that shelf for a long time. The house itself had been empty for a long time. Wind whispered through the walls, sometimes yowling in anger and sometimes mewling playfully around the corner. Owls roosted in the attic. The stairs creaked, as if someone was there, padding down them after all th is time hoping for something to change- only the dust gathered like blankets covering everything in grey. Sorrow hung in the air like the sound of cicadas in summer. Some days, the house seemed to whisper, to cry, and to sulk. Sometimes voices where heard, flitting through the halls and passed the old book shelves.

“Are you doing alright?”
“Yes. But what about you mum- are you doing alright?”
“Yes, I’m doing fine.”
“If only I had been nicer to dad…”
“If only I forced her to do her homework, maybe things wouldn’t be this way.”
“I hate myself.”
“I bet she hates me…”
“Mum, are you alright?”
“Yes, of course, love. Are you alright?”
“Yeah.”

It wasn’t that the house had ghosts. Oh no, never that. It was more that the house remembered the only family it had ever had. It had been built for them. The ground had been broken open for them; a man and a woman and a little girl. There were pictures of them somewhere. They day they had brought a camera had been a bleak one, gray and cold and the foundation had just barely been broken.