On the corner of a friendly and happy neighborhood, an old house stands on the corner, rundown and abandoned. It’s silhouette is a testament to years gone by. Weathered shutters hang askew, barely clinging to the fragile frame of splintered wood. Paint, once vibrant, now peels away in tired strips, revealing the gray bones of a structure that has seen better days. The neighborhood children dare not go near it, for each step on the porch is a cautious dance with decay. But still, The lonely boards Creek — whispering secrets of the laughter and tears they once bore.

Inside, the air is thick with dust, a shroud over memories long forgotten. The dust particles float and dance in the air before dropping to land on the left behind furniture, blanketing dishes and old figurines as if to tell them good night. Faded floral wallpaper curls at the edges like leaves wilting without a touch of the sun. The woodstove, cold and empty, no longer holds the warmth of a crackling fire. Atop the barren mantle, only the outlines still remain of photos removed long ago.

In the quiet, one can almost hear the echoes of footsteps through the halls. It’sa ghostly reminder of life that once filled these rooms. Light filters in through the shattered glass remains of the windows, causing shadows to dance and play on the walls. These shadows, so oblivious and indifferent. So unaware of how utterly alone they truly are.

The beds upstairs remain messy and unmade, waiting for occupants who will never return. In the corner lies an old deflated basketball, a silent witness to games that will never be played again.

The once colorful garden is now rundown with weeds, each vine a stranglehold on the beauty that used to be. As the neighbors walk by, they can’t help but stare at this old abandoned house. They wonder what it would be like to live there. They wonder what the people who lived there were like. If they were nice, or if they were happy. But after casting a curious gaze upon the house, eventually they turn around and leave. They go on with their own lives. For to them, this house is just a hollow shell where once there was a home.