There’s no such thing as silence. The hum of
electricity. The whisper of a TV not yet turned on. The scrabble of mockingbird
feet on a gutter. The quiet conversations the floorboards have with one
another. And above it all, the sound of waiting – a house waiting for its
people to tell it what to do. Even when they’re empty – no humans, no ghosts –
you can hear the memories: a dropped piece of china, a laugh that got caught in
a corner, the tattoo of children’s feet on the stairs. You can hear the wild
taking over, the spiders and the vines and fungus. You can’t hear them, but the
sounds are there all the same.
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