It struck me deeply—an epiphany, quiet but absolute. Among the endless questions I carry, I had found an answer. There was only one house in the world where I ever felt truly safe, even when I was alone: my grandparents' home.
That house wasn’t just walls and a roof. It breathed. It pulsed with life. The scent of every corner, bread and tea, the soft glow of its light, the worn furniture that knew our shape, everything whispered, "We are here. With you. For you." It wrapped me in a peace I never found anywhere else, and I lost now again. There, I had no fear. No burdens. Only warmth and safety. A unique kind of love that filled the air like sunlight through lace curtains.
But now... the house is quiet in a different way.
Its walls no longer embrace, they sag with sorrow. Cracked. No voices echo, no footsteps stir its soul. There’s no one left to wake it up, to make it come alive. It stands hollow and cold even in hottest days of summer, a husk of memories wrapped in stone. When they died, the house died with them. And a big part of me did too.
Still, my heart aches to return. Some days, I wish I could slip out of my own body and drift there, just for a while, to sit in that silence, listen to it and pretend it still lives.
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