There is a heart in the house, and a ghost in the windows. The curtains billow in the wind like dying flame, and the floorboards are ticking clocks.
The air is dusty, saturated with age and memory; you take a deep breath and choke on it.
The walls are foreign to you now, yellowed and peeled. You try to feel the voice in them, but no vision reaches you.
The house is hollowed like a chest, the windows glazed over like cataracts; you carry it all inside you.
But if you listen you can hear the humming; there is life here yet. You are a wildflower on a grave; the sun still shines through broken glass.
Here, is a broken heart, and here, is the cast.
