Yellow House

I wander through these soulless hallways, searching for something I can’t name.

The air is stale, thick with dust and silence.

Floorboards creak beneath my weight, groaning like old wounds that never healed.

The walls feel too tight, pressing in, squeezing me into something smaller, something unseen.

A door stands ahead, a fragile promise, a flicker of light at the end of the tunnel.

A breeze slips through the cracks, urging me forward, whispering of something else, something beyond.

Cautiously, I open it. Oxygen rips from my lungs, replaced with something sterile, something still.

As if the world outside had been waiting for my absence.

Silence stretches endlessly, muffled beneath winter’s heavy blankets.

Snow covers the earth like a burial shroud, soft, thick, unyielding. It calls to me, beckons me forward, a lighthouse guiding a ship safely to shore.

But something holds me in place. I turn back one last time, needing to see what I am leaving behind.

Slowly, my gaze rises—and I gasp.

A yellow house, standing alone against the cold.

It expands, exhales, swells with warmth, love pressing against its walls, glowing in the windows .A home bursting with something I no longer belong to, something I will never touch again.

I stare, rooted in place, watching it breathe without me. Watching it live.

And I understand—I am the ghost.