Our House
Far away from the nearest town, on the outskirts of the country, there is a little cottage not very well known that is home to two inhabitants. Looking at the front of the house, it is surrounded by a field of grass dancing in the gentle wind, with short, slender trees, each of them home to families of birds and squirrels, sparsely separated. Among them, an unusually tall tree stands next to the house, as if to give support and to guard over it. The breeze brings about air that freshens one after a day of hustle and tussle in the urban jungle. The sun bathed the little place in warm light.
Back of the house paints a slightly different picture, almost contrasting. Fallen trees, dead leaves littered the place. The air has a tinge of rotting stench and burning smell. It is void of the little furry animals seen just at the front gate. There are burn marks, and signs of strong winds upleveling the entire place, as if mighty Thor had unleash his anger upon it.
The wooden house sat in the middle of little sanctuary and wasteland. Upon closer look, it is not as flawless as it seemed to be. There are patch jobs all over. The wood has been layered over and over again. Some of the support beams are torned and broken. Others are held up by ropes that give off a creaking sound upon touch, like it has been stretched at its limit. Around the perimeter of the house lies shards of broken glass, photos torned into pieces and broken plushies, some missing their ears, and others, their eyes. At the doorstep, there is a mat with the word "Welcome", and a sign hangs from the middle of the door that says "Home Sweet Home".
Peering through the door, the living room sports simplistic furniture. A sofa, coffee table and television set. Two cups of coffee are placed on the table. They have been left there for so long that cobwebs have grown over them. The interior is painted in a light shade of blue and gray, giving it a very soothe feel. There are rough sketches of drawings on it, animals like cats, cartoons like Cinnamonroll and Nemu Neko, and items like rings and necklaces. They seem to be symbolic items to the owners' lives.
The corridor leading towards the bedroom is lined up with cleaning tools. Brooms, mops, glues, scotchtapes, paints, sewing kits hammers and nails. Lying in the middle of the stack is a half repaired Nemu Neko plushie. Its seams in the middle is split. There is a needle and thread halfway sewn. The sides of the seam are dotted with many holes. It has been torned, sewn up, then torned and sewn up many times before. In the dustbin there are broken picture frames. The photos they hold are so muddled and drawn over with marker pens that it is impossible to make out the pictures.
One may expect the bedroom at the end of the corridor to be similarly filled with simple furniture and broken items. However, this room is none like the rest.
It is completely empty. The floor, walls and ceiling were painted a pure white. There are no beds nor closets, and none of the broken glass and toys. The sunlight beam in through the window, reflecting around the room, brightening it up. From it, one can view the tallest tree from the opposite side of the entrance. Here, photos are nailed onto it. In those, the owners put on radiant smiles. These are the good memories, the happiest and joyiest times. Moments without sadness nor anguish. The sense of satisfaction and fulfillment. The Love.
At the corner of the room there are two rocking chairs. Two skeletons are holding hands.