Some houses just whisper their story to me.

The little house didn't mind becoming overgrown; the trees and brush shielded it from being discovered. It was patiently waiting for them to return; the man, the woman, the boy and the dog. It longed for the smell of food cooking in the kitchen, the sound of the boy and the dog running to the front door when the man came home, the joy in the boy's laughter when the man picked him up and tossed him in the air, the peaceful sound of snoring in the night as the house kept watch over them all.

Vividly it remembered that night when a car with flashing lights parked on the lawn, and two men came to the door. The sorrow. And that day when the woman took the boy and the dog, and went to a place called Mother's.

It would wait till the floorboards gave way, and the roof gave in. It would wait through the snowfalls of winter, and the blistering heat of summer, for the family to return. After all, what is a house without a family?