We came to the house in a mist of unease. Lawn statues loomed from the grey shroud, begged our retreat.
The house gifted solitude for your prose.
For me, it was never silent amongst Memory's echo. Footsteps never disturbed your art the way they scurried through my dreams.
The years grew empty rooms between us.
Voices beckoned at every corner. Whispered about the darkness. Their hands held mine through winter.
And as time bled colour from my soul, I became them. My empty stare etched in blurred reflections, a part of the forever in this house.