There's A Ghost In My House (Unhinged)

Travellers loved my house.

At least, that is what I told myself.

That they weren't trespassers.

That this was still a house.

The truth was less poetic.

People love houses the way they love hospitals.

Mostly when they need one.

They arrived at dusk.

Wet clothes. Heavy bags. Heavier histories.

I opened the doors.

Not because I was kind.

Because empty rooms have a way of reminding you what you are.

A house without inhabitants is just a corpse with better architecture.

So I let them in.

Everyone left something behind.

A photograph. A promise.

A stain on the carpet they swore was already there.

I never complained.

Complaints are for places that still believe they deserve better.

I had stopped believing that some time ago.

They called me home.

I found it amusing.

Home is a beautiful word.

It convinces people that a place belongs to them while quietly hiding the fact that they belong to their habits.

They came here to rest.

To heal. To hide.

Some succeeded. Some didn't.

Some broke things. Some repaired them.

Some loved the house. Some hated it.

The difference was mostly how honest they were.

Because every person leaves fingerprints.

Even the ones who arrive with flowers.

Especially those.

Years passed.

The walls grew tired.

The floors learned the weight of departures.

The windows stopped expecting faces to return.

People called it a ruin.

I disagreed.

Ruins are honest.

Houses are just ruins that haven't admitted it yet.

I remained.

Not because I was abandoned.

Abandonment requires someone to have promised permanence.

Nobody did.

I remained because that is what houses do.

They stay.

Even when staying is no longer loyalty.

Even when staying is just another form of cowardice.

Everyone who lived here became a chapter.

Everyone who left became a memory.

And I?

I am the ghost inside the ruins.

Not the ghost of the people who left.

The ghost of the house that believed being needed was the same thing as being loved.

Everyone had somewhere to return to.

Everyone had somewhere to go.

Everyone had a door waiting for them.

Except the house.

The only thing that was always open

was the only thing

that was never allowed to leave.