The Gossip of Ghosts đź‘»
From the journal of a love-lorn lady, year unknown...
This night, the house speaks again...
It murmurs his name through the broken pane,
as though love itself were trapped between brick and breath...
I dare not answer, lest the silence grow jealous...
The neighbours call it gossip,
say the walls creak from cold and age...
Ah, if only they knew how sorrow shivers when alone...
The air still bears the scent of him,
and I fear the house keeps it so,
lest I forget how memory feels against the skin...
I have made no vow to death, yet death abides with me...
The hearth grows colder,
and still the whispers bloom
sweet ghosts, faithful only to love unfinished...
Epilogue
They found her journal years later,
beneath the warped floorboards near the hearth...
The ink had faded, but the scent of lavender and smoke remained...
Some say the pages still rustle when the night turns lonely
others swear the house still murmurs his name,
soft as a confession,
loud as a curse...
And perhaps it is true
for love that never dies
must find some tongue to speak again...
