I walk to the house
at the end of the street
Dark muddy ruts weave a path
I follow them towards the door
The cold damp Winter air
carries acrid scent of decaying leaves
and burnt wood
into my lungs
Approaching the house
its windows frame of darkness
and Burst of wind masks
any possible sounds of life within
Stepping closer
the curtains dance
through windows without glass
then stop
as the breeze retreats back into the nearby woods
The house doesn’t seem as welcoming as before
and my walk less peaceful
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