The Architecture of Forgotten Echoes

The lintel of the old door sags, burdened by the weight of silence accumulated over forty winters. Dust motes dance in the shaft of moonlight like ghosts of unread letters.

Beneath the floorboards, the earth breathes, a slow, rhythmic inhalation of damp loam and the metallic tang of oxidized copper. Memory is a slow-growing lichen here, clinging to the edges of what was once stone.

The wind outside whistles through the eaves, a hollow flute playing a song of erosion. We are only guests in this geometry, calculating the distance between the last footfall and the first sprout of clover.