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ISBN13: 9798285783244
Publisher: Independently Published
Published: May 29 2025
Pages: 114
Weight: 0.36
Height: 0.24 Width: 6.00 Depth: 9.00
Language: English
Publisher: Independently Published
Published: May 29 2025
Pages: 114
Weight: 0.36
Height: 0.24 Width: 6.00 Depth: 9.00
Language: English
In certain places, time is not a river but a deep, still pool. Its surface may reflect the present, bright and demanding, but its depths hold the silences of all that has passed, and perhaps, the shadows of all that is yet to come. Old cities are full of such pools, their waters stirred by the passage of countless lives, their banks worn smooth by the tides of memory. More than most, New Orleans is a city of such depths, where the air itself feels saturated with echoes.
And in these places, where the veil between then and now seems to be thinnest, houses are not mere shelters of wood and stone. They are archives of emotion, repositories of experience. They breathe with the lives lived within their walls, sigh with forgotten sorrows, and sometimes, they seem to watch, to listen, with an awareness that transcends the mundane. They become accustomed to the unseen, the unheard - the subtle pressure of a gaze from nowhere, the fleeting chill where no draft could be, the faintest scent of a flower long since vanished.
For who is to say what constitutes a presence? Is it only the living, breathing inhabitants who mark their passage upon a place? Or do others, from elsewhere, from elsewhen, also leave their faint, inexplicable traces? The curious glance, the fleeting thought, the momentary focus of an attention from beyond the ken of those who walk the sunlit paths of the present - can these not also ripple the surface of that deep, still pool?
Some houses, by their age, history, or perhaps some intrinsic quality of their very bones, become beacons, drawing such attention. They are silent witnesses, accustomed to more than just the winds and rains. They become stages for dramas unseen, their rooms echoing with dialogues unheard by those who believe themselves to be their sole occupants.
Number 14, Prytania Street, was such a house. It had stood for generations, soaking in the laughter, the tears, the hopes, and the despairs of those who had called it home. It had absorbed the very essence of their lives. And perhaps, it had grown accustomed to other kinds of attention too - the quiet, imperceptible scrutiny of visitors who left no footprints, cast no shadows, yet whose passing stirred the ancient dust and troubled the quiet air within its venerable walls, waiting for someone, in turn, to notice them.
For who is to say what constitutes a presence? Is it only the living, breathing inhabitants who mark their passage upon a place? Or do others, from elsewhere, from elsewhen, also leave their faint, inexplicable traces? The curious glance, the fleeting thought, the momentary focus of an attention from beyond the ken of those who walk the sunlit paths of the present - can these not also ripple the surface of that deep, still pool?
Some houses, by their age, history, or perhaps some intrinsic quality of their very bones, become beacons, drawing such attention. They are silent witnesses, accustomed to more than just the winds and rains. They become stages for dramas unseen, their rooms echoing with dialogues unheard by those who believe themselves to be their sole occupants.
Number 14, Prytania Street, was such a house. It had stood for generations, soaking in the laughter, the tears, the hopes, and the despairs of those who had called it home. It had absorbed the very essence of their lives. And perhaps, it had grown accustomed to other kinds of attention too - the quiet, imperceptible scrutiny of visitors who left no footprints, cast no shadows, yet whose passing stirred the ancient dust and troubled the quiet air within its venerable walls, waiting for someone, in turn, to notice them.
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