Stories They Could Tell

There is something about an old house, especially an abandoned house which beckons to me. I have been in a few old houses where the owners have left for some reason. My imagination sparks with brightness and I am flooded with a whoosh of emotion. Who lived here? Who died here? Was there a young girl who rushed up the steps as her crinoline skirts, billowed sideways from her movements?

I love the chipped house paint which flakes downwards as it were delicate petals. The green ivy crawling up a wall, desperate to survive and reach light. And of the layer of soft dust which lays to rest these treasures. Waiting for someone to come along and discover them.