And Still the Walls Remember
written by: Hannah Barth
The familiar room still holds her smell. The scent of cheap perfume, something floral and intense, like wilting lilacs in stagnant water. It clings to the walls and curtains and bleached old rugs.
“Somebody open a window, it’s stifling in here.”
The room was repainted in hues of pink and bright grey. It serves a different purpose now, seeming lively, almost cheerful. A vanity desk stands by the window where the old sick bed once stood. A pot of freshly cut flowers rests thoughtfully arranged on the windowsill, flourishing in the sun, drawing soft patterns on the hardwood floor. It’s peaceful.
The place moved on.
Except – has it?
At night, the walls start to whisper and tell the story of great suffering and pain. The walls close in, and the sweetness becomes suffocating. The full moon paints pictures on the ceiling: grotesque faces and distorted limbs, changing shape slowly with the passing of time. Little flashes of the past it holds.
“Just open that window, will you, I can’t breathe.”
I get up. Hands hovering over the vanity – hesitant. Then I crack open the window. It resists, the old frames creaking in protest. Eventually they give in, letting in a stream of cold, fresh air.
Eerie silence and the soft rustling of leaves in the night sky.
The place moved on. But it won’t ever let us go.
- And Still the Walls Remember - July 14, 2025
