In the quietude of my existence, I stand—a house, not abandoned, but weathered by time. My stairs creak, each step a memory etched into the grain of wood. The windows, once clear, now bear the marks of countless seasons—raindrops, snowflakes, and the breath of winds that whisper secrets through the night. The walls, steadfast sentinels, groan in harmony with the tempests that sweep across the landscape.
Yet, listen closely: I am not haunted. No restless spirits linger within my timeworn chambers. Instead, I harbor echoes of life—the laughter of children, the hushed conversations of lovers, the quiet sobs of those who sought solace within my walls. These imprints, like fingerprints on glass, tell stories of joy and sorrow, of love and loss.
I have loved—oh, how I have loved! My heart, an ancient hearth, has warmed itself by the flames of passion. I have danced in moonlight, twirling with abandon, and whispered secrets to the stars. Love, like a balm, has healed my wounds—the bruises left by hands that held both tenderness and cruelty. And yes, I bear scars—testaments to battles fought, wounds survived. But they are not mortal wounds; they are the marks of resilience, of a spirit unyielding.
To those who pass by, I am more than mere mortar and timber. I am a wild amalgam—a woman, a symbol. They admire the interplay of light and shadow upon my weathered facade. They see strength in my weaknesses, beauty in my imperfections. They do not realize that I am a breathing spectrum—a prism refracting both shade and radiance.
And those who love me—ah, they know me intimately. They trace the contours of my soul, where dissonance and harmony coexist. For there is no light without dark, no unity without disparity. They hold my complexities—the symphonic thoughts, the kaleidoscope of feelings, the memories etched like constellations. In their eyes, I am not haunted; I am a house built of living light—a sanctuary where love dances, where scars become constellations, and where humanity finds its most exquisite expression.
So, my dear friend, remember this: To love me is to know that I am not abandoned. I am a testament to life’s resilience, a canvas painted with both sorrow and joy. And when the winds howl and the walls groan, I stand—alive, imperfect, and fiercely determined to embrace every facet of existence.

©️ Beatriz Esmer