If silence had a scent, Ethan thought it would be something like this—a strange mix of cold metal and stale air that hit him as soon as he crossed the threshold into the house. The door groaned as it swung open, the hinges long forgotten like they were too tired to protest his entry. Inside, the air felt heavy, thick with the stillness that weighed on your chest, making you hyper-aware of every sound—or rather, the lack of it. This wasn’t the comforting hush of a quiet morning or the peaceful calm after a long day. No, this was different. This kind of silence carried the weight of a thousand unsaid things, words that had been swallowed whole by the years.

Ethan's footsteps were barely audible as he moved deeper into the house. Each step sank slightly into the layers of dust that had settled like snow. The floor creaked underfoot, reminding him that the house was old, older than him, older than most of the memories he could still clearly recall. There was also that odd, almost metallic tang that lingered in the air. It reminded him of old pennies, the earth that hadn't been disturbed in decades, and books that had been shut away for too long, their pages yellowed and brittle. There was something else, too, something faint and barely there, like the ghost of a perfume he couldn't quite place. It was as if someone had once passed through these rooms and left only the scent of their absence behind.

As he walked through the dimly lit rooms, he couldn’t help but notice how everything seemed frozen in time. The furniture, draped in sheets that had long since lost color, stood as specters of life paused indefinitely. Cobwebs hung like delicate lace from the corners of the ceiling, and the grimy and streaked windows let in only the barest slivers of light, just enough to see by but not enough to chase away the shadows that clung to every corner. Ethan felt that it would crumble under his fingers if he reached out to touch anything, leaving nothing but dust and memories.

He found it in the center of the parlor—the thing that had been nagging at him since he walked in, the source of that faint scent he couldn’t quite identify. A single, withered rose sat in a cracked vase on a small, round table. Once, the flower had probably been a deep, vibrant red that demanded attention, but now, it was nothing more than a fragile, brown husk. The petals had curled in on themselves as if trying to hide from time itself. Ethan reached out, almost afraid to touch it, fearful it might disintegrate at the slightest breath. His fingers brushed against the dry, papery petals, and in that instant, the silence seemed to grow louder, pressing in on him from all sides, filling his ears with a deafening nothingness.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember the last time he had been here, trying to summon the faces, the voices, the laughter that must have once filled these rooms. But all he could find was that silence—cold, unyielding, and complete. It was as if the house had swallowed every memory whole, leaving behind only the barest traces, like the lingering scent of the rose, so faint that he couldn’t be sure if it were real or just imagining it.

When they came, the memories were hazy, like looking through a fogged-up window. He could make out shapes and colors, but the details eluded him. He could almost hear his mother’s voice, soft and soothing, telling him everything would be alright. He could practically see his father sitting in his favorite chair, reading the newspaper like every evening. But those were just shadows, nothing more. The house had moved on, and so had everyone else, leaving Ethan with the silence and the scent of things long gone.

Nothing was strange standing there in that empty house surrounded by so much. He had come here looking for something, though he wasn’t sure what. Closure, maybe, or a connection to a past that felt more distant with each passing year. But as he stood there, staring at the withered rose, he realized that what he was looking for didn’t exist anymore. It had vanished with the people who had once filled this house, with the voices that had once echoed through these rooms. All that was left was this—the silence, the decay, and that faint, elusive scent that clung to his skin, refusing to let go.

Ethan took a deep breath, filling his lungs with heavy air. It felt like he was breathing in silence, letting it seep into him, filling up all the empty spaces inside. He knew he would carry it with him when he left, that it would follow him, lingering on his clothes and in his hair, a reminder of the things he couldn’t quite remember and the people he couldn’t quite forget.

As he turned to leave, the silence pressed in on him one last time, heavy and final, like a door closing on a chapter of his life that he hadn’t realized was over. The rose, the house, and the memories would all stay here, locked away in the past, and he would carry only the scent of silence with him, a smell that he would never be able to describe but would always recognize. And with that, he stepped out into the light, leaving the house and its ghosts behind, knowing that the silence would follow him, a companion he could never quite shake.