They say abandoned houses recount their past in the darkness of night – at the wee hours; to be able to hear the faint murmurs, you’d have to overcome all the chaos within – the tiny voices of conscience, the little flames of vulnerability and the most crucial of all, fear.
I don’t quite get those bewildering words, given I’m just a 10 year-old; the reason today I’m here, in our old, abandoned house is to find out why my family left it – what story it has got to tell; Mom and Dad are indifferent to my curiosity – I don’t get why; so is my elder sister.
With all these thoughts running through my mind, I start ascending the stairs; my eyes have now acclimatized to the darkness; I miss playing, sitting on the landing of this switchback staircase; oh, there it is – the mirror, Mom’s favorite; she left this one too; I stop to have a look at it, rather at myself, but…
I can’t see myself in there – why is there no reflection?
Written by Chirasree Bose for Three Line Tales, Week 104