Number 47

The antique clock is silent it ticks and chimes no more. The old leather satchel, redundant, hangs idly by the door. The kitchen table is dormant, devoid of function or chat, once the hub of the household, around which the family all sat. The fireplace in the living room, dead, it’s function defunct. A newspaper idly strewn nearby, a cup, in which biscuits were dunked. The walls, once vibrant with laughter, silent, a cold carapace. The halls, a place of adventure, a racetrack where children would chase. The old house settles and creaks, it’s memories locked in time. Now no one speaks of the family, as the old clock gives one last chime.