House of Solitude
In the house of solitude,
quiet visitors come, one after the other—
to sit, or sleep, or simply look around
before walking away.
There are no written rules to follow,
but with time, unspoken traditions emerge,
passed down by the creaks in the floors,
the scratches on wallpaper—
a language of the past.
Those who enter must leave a signature behind,
a trace of their existence
in the ever-welcoming house.
Some break what was always there,
fracturing furniture,
leaving the space in disarray.
Others pick up the broken pieces,
mending them
better than before.
And some simply tie ribbons
in places no one would have glanced before.
Whatever gift they leave behind—
a gift, regardless of intent—
for change is always valuable.
The house, lovely at first glance,
is richer than kings on gilded thrones,
for it holds the whispers
of what once was
and what will always be.