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 simpler.
People love houses the way they love hospitals.
Mostly when they need one.
They arrived at dusk,
with rain in their pockets and histories in their hands.
Some came carrying flowers.
Some came carrying fires.
Most came carrying both and called themselves guests.
I opened the doors.
Not because I was kind.
Because empty rooms have a cruel habit of introducing you to yourself.
A house without inhabitants is just a corpse with better architecture.
They all left something behind.
A photograph. A promise.
A crack they swore was already there.
Some loved me. Some hated me.
Most simply survived their time here.
Years passed.
The walls grew tired.
The rooms learned that footsteps sound identical whether someone is arriving or departing.
People called me a ruin. I disagreed.
Ruins are honest.
Houses are just ruins that haven't admitted it yet.
I am the ghost inside these walls.
Not the ghost of those who left.
The ghost of a house that mistook being needed for being loved.
Everyone had somewhere to go.
Everyone had a door waiting.
Everyone eventually became a story they told about their time here.
Except me.
I remained behind to preserve the evidence.
The only thing that was always open was the only thing that was never allowed to leave.
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