The house smells lifeless and damp. Cobwebs everywhere proving once there was life within these walls but has moved out and left only its shell behind that is covered entirely with threads now. As I walk on the ancient parquets underneath the thinned carped it cracks its pain of desertion into the walls that echo it back to them as a Ping-Pong ball. Only my shallow breath fills this place with life – momentarily.
There were others here before but left no trace behind. The house stayed a mere shell after their departure. No life was left behind.
The squeaking mice bring some easy into the heavy silence of the place. They live their waste behind like traces of living organisms besides the un-translucent spider webs.
Life does not live here any more.
I found a hidden room, up in the attick. It is all flashy, refurbished and colourful. After all, somebody left some life behind …