Another Sunday, another chance to wander these hallowed halls, where shadows cling to corners like secrets yet to be shared. As Barry busie...
Another Sunday, another chance to wander these hallowed halls, where shadows cling to corners like secrets yet to be shared. As Barry busied himself with his mundane chores—dusting, vacuuming, and grumbling about misplaced tools—I embarked on my weekly ritual: a contemplative stroll through the shadowy realms of our home.
The first stop was the hallway. Long and narrow, it felt like stepping into another dimension. The shadows here were restless, shifting ever so slightly, as if unsettled by my presence. They twisted and stretched across the walls, forming shapes that seemed to whisper of forgotten stories. The air was thick, heavy with anticipation, as though the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for... something.
In the living room, Not My Cat lay sprawled in Barry’s chair, her tail flicking lazily. She watched me with half-lidded eyes, feigning disinterest, but I knew better. Cats always know more than they let on. As I moved past her, I felt her gaze lingering, as though she, too, sensed the unseen presences that dwell in the edges of the light.
The bookshelves loomed large, their mismatched tomes standing sentinel. The shadows here were dense, their edges blurred, as though they were not confined by the laws of this realm. I paused to run my wooden gaze along the spines, imagining the secrets they might hold. The silence was palpable, broken only by the faint creak of the house settling—a sound that felt less like a structural shift and more like the exhalation of some unseen force.
My journey ended, as it often does, in the attic. The air here was stale, carrying the scent of aged wood and memories long buried. The shadows in this space were darker, almost tactile, clinging to the beams and boxes like lost souls searching for release. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though I were treading on sacred ground.
As I returned to my perch on the bookshelf, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadows were watching me, just as I had watched them. They are not merely absences of light; they are echoes of those who came before, perhaps even glimpses of those yet to come.
And so, dear Diary, I ask you: What shadows linger in your home?
Until next Sunday, Dale T. Doll
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