Journey: Months

The setting sun is like blood, flowing over the faded wall. Smoke escapes from the cracks in time and wanders into souls. A tortoiseshell cat broke into the light, rolled, and jumped over the wall as if burned by the silence - the last vestiges of life were taken away. The wind tiptoed across the moss and turned over the dead leaves, revealing half of the "house" drawn in chalk. The ajar window creaked, causing a cloud of gold dust to rise on the beam. The old house remembers everything: the warmth of the oil lamp, the sound of calling home, the smell of new wheat, and the tears of funerals. Now they are all thinned into silence, leaving only the whisper of wood. The light is retreating from the roof. The tiles are transparent in the backlight, like tentacles extending from the old house. When the light recedes an inch, the house sinks an inch. The word "" on the window lattice first dimmed, and then the entire gable wall sank into black. It closed the window's eyes. The night is like an old quilt. The sound of insects sounded timidly. The old house fell in the dream, falling into its own deep shadow, waiting for a disintegration or rebirth that no one witnessed. The sun will rise tomorrow morning as usual - that will be its last, unaccepted tremor.