𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎

Ｃｈａｐｔｅｒ １２

> ᴛᴡᴏ sʜᴏᴛs ᴏғ ᴠᴏᴅᴋᴀ

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯."

The foundation was built on trust all those years ago. It stood firm and tall, as burning memories faded into the air like the cigarette smoke between your lips. The blueprints of the past, the scaffolding of the hopes and dreams since you were a child, holding itself up until its last breath. However, with the state of the sanctuary you took refuge in, it was the saddest thing you've ever seen.

It took you a million years to return and a million more to step foot in its toothy mouth, waiting to swallow your naïve SOUL whole. Although it was now a chaotic wreck, the lingering SOULs still made their routes. They wonder aimlessly as you stand close, re-enacting the former glory days, blinded in their ignorance. Silhouettes of familiar faces phase through you without a second thought. A chill runs down your spine, the sins of the old house violating your exposed skin.

The more you ventured, the more the house was calling to you. The halls of the empty home still clutched on the essence of life. If you pressed your ear against the worn wallpaper, you could faintly pick up passing conversations. Their voices escape you but you desperately clutch onto them like smoke. Cycling over the years the old house has sustained. Every guest's emotions were like the seasons, everchanging. And somehow you could feel everything, everywhere, all at once.

As you open to a room, time reverted to the old house. It was no longer the lonely shack but a place of warmth and familiarity.

A home.

You were outside, in the park presumably. The birds were singing, the flowers were blooming, a perfect day for a game of catch. The world seemed to dance in oversaturated hues in contrast to the opaque dreariness you normally see before your eyes. The sense wash over you like a comforting blanket. The smell of the grass, the chill winds tickling your arms.

And there you see him, sitting on the same bench.

The man who built the old house, staring right into you with those tired eyes of his. The tuffs of old (H/C) that withheld time, holding memories in his locks with greys. He gazed at you with tired eyes yet again. Your figure shrunk down twice his size, looking up at his wrinkled face like you were a thousand years away.

Of all the years, you still recall the exact details. The face you knew long ago haunted your mind like the plague. You sit and ask yourself if he remembered yours as well or if his memory of you was vague. He wasn't a stranger to the old house, and neither were you the guest. Just two intersecting lines, crossing over each other for one minuscule moment. Only to diverge from each other, descending into the unknown, never to meet again.

His mouth moved like a ventriloquist puppet. It was your mission to find his frequency, turning the knob like a radio transmitter. You can hear the raspiness of his voice. The drowsy nature when he'd ask you a rhetorical question. He'd go on those strange tangents and mindless ramblings he lectured you with.

"Just promise me you'll be good." He'd softly mummer to your ears. Grape soda in one hand and the other between your hair. It was an amalgamation of empty words, something a child wouldn't understand.

But there was always the glimmer of hope resonating within you that he answers these days. Perhaps you could finally get out of the comfort of loneliness you found solitude in. Stuck in limbo, that ounce of closure you longed for. But your mind needed to erase him from your existence, wanting to forget the old house.