A glimmer in the night

The night swallows the landscape, and only the old house remains.

Its outline clings to the darkness, like a memory that refuses to fade.

The walls carry the weight of time cracks, shadows, silence.

And yet, behind the glass, a light still burns.

 

Not a bright light, no.

A hesitant glow, almost shy,

as if someone, somewhere, refused to turn off the last lamp.

The windows keep watch, they see, they remember.

They seem to observe more than they illuminate.

 

The wind brushes the shutters, makes the hinges moan.

No footsteps, no breath only that fragile brightness

clinging to the curtains, the walls, the ghosts.

You can almost hear muted voices, an old scent,

the whisper of a story no one tells anymore.

 

In that light, anything feels possible

the return of a soul, the trace of a crime,

or simply the loneliness of a house that remembers too much.

The night thickens around it, an accomplice.

And the light, stubborn, keeps burning on.

Done