The House Remembers

In the corner where light collected dust, a shape remains— the indent of your back against the wall as you waited for the phone to ring.

The floorboards keep their creak, that small complaint we never fixed, a voice now, calling across years. Every footstep answers it.

Windows hold the weather they have seen, the smudges of hands pressed against glass reaching toward something just beyond— not fog, but the memory of wanting clarity.

A room is a kind of witness. It doesn't leave. It doesn't pretend to have forgotten the sound of your laugh, the weight of your presence settling like evening into the chair that still holds the shape of where you sat.