The House That Waited

By Peter Bowden



The wind had long ago taken the roof, and with it went the laughter, the lamp-smoke, the smell of bread. Now the house sat alone, its bones of stone holding the line against time. The door hung crooked but proud, a sentinel against the endless drift of dust and sage. Once, hands had placed each stone with care, squaring corners against a dream that the desert would somehow grow kind.

Each evening, the light spilled down the hill in long, gold fingers, touching the broken lintel and the cracked window frames as if trying to remember their purpose. Lizards darted where children once played. The ghosts of voices rode the wind — a woman calling supper, a man cursing a stubborn mule, the creak of a bed beneath a tired sky. All of it remained, somehow, in the air — thinner now, but still holding the echo.

At night, when the stars burned like frost, the old house seemed to breathe again. The hills curved close as if listening. There were no clocks, no footsteps, only the heartbeat of the earth beneath the stones. And in that silence, the house dreamed — not of what had been lost, but of what had once been alive.


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Anonymous said…
Wonderful
November 19, 2025 at 7:11 AM

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