The house stands like a confession no one finished. Its red door keeps a small, stubborn pulse, as if a heart had been nailed there and told to behave. The path of round stones leads to it politely, like a line of excuses, each one smooth from being repeated. Trees gather close, not as guardians but as witnesses who have promised nothing. Above them a swollen moon leans too near, an authority that sees everything and forbids nothing. Colors refuse to decide whether this is evening or forgiveness; they hover, bruised and tender, as if the sky were practicing a smile it cannot hold.
I could knock and grow old at the same instant. The door would warm under my hand but not open; it would remember me only long enough to forget me properly. Inside, I imagine a chair that understands the weight of a coat, a table that knows how to wait. Perhaps there is even a window left ajar for a guest who never arrives. The snow covers footprints quickly here. It is efficient, almost kind. Home is not far; it is simply elsewhere, and it has learned to live without my name.
