𝐒𝐚𝐝 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐏𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐨, 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐧 & 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 | 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐬, 𝐃𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐚 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 | 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐧

[@Tenebrarum-Manuss]

𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐬, 𝐃𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬
The sky hung heavy with gray clouds, a gentle drizzle falling from above and casting a soft mist over the cobblestone path. The air was cool, with the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves carried on the wind. The grand old house stood tall and somber at the end of the lane, its stone walls draped in creeping ivy, the faded orange leaves clinging to it as if reluctant to let go of autumn’s warmth. It was the house of memories, a place I hadn’t seen in years but remembered as if I had left only yesterday.
I walked slowly, the rhythmic patter of rain on the ground blending with the echoes of the past. This was where I grew up, where summers were long and winters were spent by the fireplace, wrapped in the warmth of family and stories. But those days were gone, just like the people who filled the house with laughter and love.
As I reached the stone wall that encircled the property, I paused, letting the memories flood in. My grandfather used to sit on the porch, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he told tales of long-forgotten adventures. I could almost see him now, sitting there with a cup of tea, rain tapping gently on the roof, just as it did now. He would have waved me over, beckoning me to sit beside him, where the world seemed simple and the worries of life melted away.
But the porch was empty, save for the wet leaves and the creeping ivy. The house, once so full of life, now stood quiet, almost mournful. The windows, darkened with time, watched me as I approached the front door, hesitant. I hadn’t been inside since I left that last summer, after everyone had gone, leaving the house in silence. The key was still in my pocket, rusty but familiar, and I hesitated only a moment before slipping it into the lock.
The door creaked open, the sound so familiar it sent a chill through me. Inside, the air was damp and cold, carrying the faint scent of old wood and forgotten days. The hallway stretched out before me, lined with the same portraits I had passed a thousand times in my youth. Faces of ancestors long gone, their eyes watching over the house, just as they had watched over me as a child.
I wandered through the rooms, each one stirring memories like fallen leaves blown about by the wind. In the parlor, the armchair still sat by the window, where my grandmother would knit while watching the rain fall on the garden. In the kitchen, the long wooden table still bore the faint marks of family dinners, the scratches and stains a testament to years of life lived here. And in the study, my father’s books remained on the shelves, untouched, waiting for a hand that would never return.
The rain outside grew heavier, the soft patter turning into a steady rhythm. I moved to the large bay window in the living room, where I used to sit as a child, watching the world through the veil of raindrops. The view had not changed-trees stood tall on the hill beyond the house, their branches swaying gently in the wind, the amber leaves clinging to the last moments of autumn. The lampposts lining the path outside flickered faintly in the growing dusk, casting a warm glow against the encroaching darkness.
It was here, in this house, that I had learned what it meant to belong somewhere. And now, as I stood alone in the silence, I realized that time, like the rain, had washed away the details but left behind the essence. The house was not just walls and windows, but a keeper of the stories, of the lives that had filled it.
I closed my eyes and listened. For a moment, I could almost hear the voices again-laughter in the hallway, the clink of tea cups in the parlor, the rustle of pages being turned in the study. But as quickly as they came, they faded into the sound of the rain.
It was time to leave, I knew that. The house would remain, holding its memories close, just as I would hold mine. As I stepped out into the rain once more, I took one last look at the grand old home, its windows reflecting the soft light of the lampposts, before turning away.
The rain washed over me, gentle and steady, as I walked down the path. And though the house grew smaller behind me, it would always be there, waiting, a part of me forever intertwined with its stone walls and ivy-covered facade.

[@SojaPurple-sb7ei]

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[@Maria-ut9ur]

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