In the hushed and dying house silence accompanied the faded, moth eaten fabric of the ebony curtains that hung at the front door of the deserted house. The soft thud thud of a minute aperture within the window, just above the porch, reached out to the moon lit carriage gate in the near distance, nearly a mile away. A pale moon illuminated the whitewashed farmhouse. Its recently painted, framed windows reflected moonbeams that shifted across the ceiling, littered with dusty cobwebs, as the curtains shifted. It seemed as if the house was just on its way to waking, to consciousness, but it will never move again. Mother, Father had died there, it was then that Mother moved in. The grown up children, who were out and gone, never visited their parents in that house. The father of the house was still within. He was very frail and could barely speak. Sometimes he could be heard, often he could not be seen, but he still received his share of the only food his daughters shared. Mother had died two months ago, there was not even a timeframe for how long the father had been there, alone in the lifeless house. The dusty curtains still moved as he breathed.
Out of the dreary night of the impending rain, the carriage gate squeaked. It was Mother's oldest daughter. The deceased woman's daughter approached the house cautiously, her silhouette passing through the small aperture above the porch. Wet, muddy, footsteps echoing against the ebony floor. The faint light of the lamp that hung by the side of the door had created a sudden, dimly lit scene that awed the daughter of the house. Confused, scared, downcast, she leaned on the door, almost tender, as if to say " I am back, Father!" and waited. But she did not stay there long, as she heard a soft, feeble noise coming from within the dark hallway. Clad in her wet, muddy and soggy clothes, she shed in the front entrance and searched deep into the house. Shivering, she quietly stepped into the gloomy hallway and looked around. To her left was the closed doors to the father's room and a few feet down was the staircase, just before she had entered the hallway. Moving towards the stairs, she looked down the dark staircase, that stood a few feet higher than her.
Her hands reaching out for the first step, she felt the icy cold, smooth cold, old brass knick knacks that adorned the walls. They shone brightly in the low light of the hallway. Her feet stepped upon the cool, spiky carpeted steps and cautiously approached the dark half open doors, that lead to the father's room. She had seen the lights of the flickering candles as she waited for her mother in the long car, outside, in the porch. She suspected that her father would be awake, she felt that he would be awake. She was correct, there night was actually very silent, with only the most distant, chilling howl of a wolf, the slow and docile, shallow snore of her father. Her father had woken, being very lost and disoriented, like all of his days were, and continuously, touched upon the old brass knick knacks, while gazing into the past.
The door, slowly, slowly opened and the daughter of the house slowly, softly stepped into the darkened room. She saw her father. He was sitting on his bed, that had recently been changed, he was speaking to himself in that rare, ancient language he knew, he was shaking and crying in the room. His body was frail and nearly dead, but his mind was nearly gone. It was numb, unable to fathom any of the words he was speaking, like a dreamer in a dream. Her eyes filled with tears as she saw how his body had become after the death of his wife. Barely able to speak, barely able to move, she could still see regret and sorrow in his eyes as he gazed into the old copper lamp that illuminated his bedside. His frail, weakened body had huge bags underneath it, that seem to have no eyes and only seemed to hug the body of a sorrowful man. She moved cautiously towards the bed, her footsteps silenced as she crept closer and closer to him. Her body trembled, she could feel her tear dried, shrunken skin sticking to each of her bones like a drying, unyielding glue. She had never met him before, he was a stranger to her, but she had felt his eyes on her, she could feel the breath of a lonely man in her lungs. She moved closer and closer towards his bed, still unnoticed by him. He continued to speak and cry in that old, lost language. She was but a shadow, her presence was non-existent to him. Her steps on the papery floor were but a far away whisper to his ears. The silence and the darkness of the night were heavy upon him.
Reaching out to the soft lamp, tears uncontrollably running down her eyes, she switched it off, leaving both the room and her father in complete darkness. His breathing stopped, his eyes closed, the family shadows ran behind him and into the moonlit corners of the dark room.
