decay
Hauntings in Little Places Alba Sarria There is my aunt’s room: her papers, her books. The calculator she used for her online math course, tucked in the drawer. Her pillow that once smelled like Florida rain. The pictures of us as kids that she brought, framed, set like tombstones on the desk—collecting dust. Her Christmas present, unopened, lost under the bed. Her sheets. Her unfinished homework. That blue t-shirt we can’t bring ourselves to throw away. It all lays there, haunting. Her life is imprinted upon the walls she grasped, the floors she convulsed on, the couch she fell upon. The house seeps her. It reeks her. It can’t be cleansed of her.
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