Amongst towering trees and high-built walls stood a quaint house. Alone, unnoticed by the world. It had large, arched windows and gardens that wildly bloomed. The porch light flickered in an untimely beat, and the door shrieked as it opened.

Inside, the curtains were drawn. Every room conjured a kaleidoscope of memories. The walls were adorned with photographs and loving blemishes, traces of those who had lived there. Furniture was sealed beneath white cloth, preserved from time, and a hollowing air shifted through the walls. The mantle stood steady and strong, but a closer look revealed the scruffs. Dust lingered on the floorboards and crept into crevices unseen. The plants searched the room, desperately seeking sunlight, pleading to be touched by the warmth.

But the owner had sealed shut its doors and windows. Although he regularly visited, it remained unwelcoming. Abandoned, but somewhat maintained.

Until one day, he decided to let the house breathe again.

He moved slowly, deliberately. The curtains were drawn open one by one, letting light spill onto the floorboards for the first time in years. Cloth was lifted from old furniture, releasing a soft puff of dust, like breath long held. He cleaned. Repaired. Let joy echo through the hallways again, if only in memory.

He remembered when children’s laughter had once filled the air. When guests had greeted one another with warm smiles and cheeky glances. When the house had danced with love, light, and life. When it was fearless.

The house, once hidden and hollow, was becoming itself again, reclaiming the playful flair it had once held.
Unafraid of exposure.
Delighting in company.