There’s a certain loneliness that hangs over my cottage.
It seems almost out of place in a world that spins faster with
every passing year. The weight of time like a
well-worn coat - familiar, but heavy.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of old paper and dust.
It’s the kind of scent that tells a story of countless
afternoons spent lost in worlds crafted from words.
Each book tells its own tale - not just in its pages, but in the
creased spines and yellowed edges that speak of a life once
well-lived. There’s a quiet sadness in knowing that some
of these stories may never be read again.
I remember the nights when I'd read by candlelight, the candle's
flames danced to the rhythm of the turning pages. Shadows once
cast by flame now linger in the corners, still and unmoving.
The cottage itself seems to sigh. Its walls - lined with memories.
And yet, despite the melancholy that has seeped into its walls,
the cottage holds on. It waits, quietly, as if knowing
that a love for stories cannot fade entirely.
♥