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We Have Always Lived in the Mansion

We Have Always Lived in the Mansion

With a push, the heavy oak doors open, releasing a breath of air long held, smelling of antiqued memories and overgrown vines. Indeed the conservatory’s foliage has invaded this part of the mansion. 

You cross the ruins of the once coveted parquet floors with reverence and touch the phonograph abandoned on the credenza. There’s a record still in it. Brushing aside a curl of unruly vines, you set the needle. The record crackles to life and the sigh of a lone cello echos down long halls and up weaving staircases, like blood pumped through veins long dormant. The last song she must have heard before the great fire. 

You don’t feel as though you are listening alone, suddenly. Not to worry. It’s just you and the vines here, after all.

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