Another day was much the same, except for the headlights that greeted her with a smile and the tail lights that left her with a tear.
The house was heavy, felt sad, was well-worn but not well-loved, carried a stain on it from years of sorrow, contention, unease. It sighed, it ached. It fell apart while still so young. It festered.
The silence was sacred, the darkness was sacred. She could create it with the push of a switch to lay softly sighing below the lid of the house, listening to its remorse, feeling its ebb and flow.
She thought,
Maybe I will lose my mind,
and she smiled. She felt its wandering paths and strange trailings off, wondering at the breadth and scope, something wholly hers yet possessing more than she was aware of.
And the ghosts, the ghosts whispered, and the weights lay on her eyes, and the breath slowed as it escaped her lips, and she slept, she slept alone, she slept alive in that cave, that crypt, the World Apart beckoning her away while the ghosts murmured and shuffled their feet.
They laid their hands on her and touched her dreams, tinging them grey, black, brown, damp and rotting green. They watched her play on the land of her youth and made it dissolve, twisted it, let her thirst for more so that she could know their pangs for A Life Greater.
And as the morning swallows chased the ghosts back into the walls, she thought,
Maybe I have already lost it,
and she smiled.
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