The Time of a House

When I come across an old house, bearing traces of repair and refinement, I find myself pausing in front of it. The slate panels patched over the roof, the cracked and faded walls seemed to carry the textures of a painting. The small garden and flowerpots, tenderly cared for, with blossoms in quiet bloom, made me linger even longer.

As I looked at the faded colors, the mended marks, and the nurtured touches scattered throughout, it felt as though the house had layered time within every corner. Each house stood silently, carrying its own time, its own colors.

A house, without words, tells its own story. I become a butterfly, or at times a cat, and dwell for a moment within the time of that house before returning.