Like an uninvited visitor, something’s trying to knock and to be opened. It was years ago that this house as her heart welcomed a stranger who needed a space to sleep upon, sheets to cover from the cold, couches to cradle a weary and a broken soul. It was years ago when someone fill in the house with a smell of a black coffee, of fragrance from daffodils and roses standing at the living room’s table every morning, of an incense so strong yet comforting. It was years ago that the books and magazines occupied every empty chair that held ideas of fictional characters. It was years ago that the windows were unlocked for believing that a tiny light from the outside would cast off the darkness of memories inside that dwelling. The house was then a safekeeping of untold stories, hidden scars, meaningless regrets that he read and heard through and through that the guest turned into a home by himself.
Yet, on one solemn night, the door shut closed, just when the stranger needed to travel another path ahead. Yes, the doorknob, the pavement and the gate that once greeted a joyful hello seems like bare, void and untouched by now.
And here it comes another one.