The empty house, where no-one lived, was built for no reason. Its walls absorbed no sounds: of children playing; of lullabies sung; of evening laughter. Its best view was left undiscovered, like the words in an unwritten poem. Clouds of memory struggled slowly across boards where silence walked. The pallid garden’s bloodless bloom met stillness on each angular plane. Time slid over its solid geometry until the house no longer existed.
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