Ever since I was a child, nostalgia reminded me of noses. Before I knew what it meant, I thought it was some strange nose disease. Now, I know what it means, but I still can’t get the association out of mind. I don’t have anything especially profound relating nostalgia and noses, so I’ll just end this here. I hope you enjoy!
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The Cobwebs at Rosebrook
Nostalgia (n): pleasant remembrances.
The house loomed like a dark stranger from her past. The heavy iron gate creaked open with a sputtering wail. Emma walked down the cracked driveway hedged with overgrown rose bushes to the house she had left years ago.
It had never felt so empty before. Dusty light poured from tall, grimy windows. It filtered past the faded, red curtains that alluded to the house’s former brilliance, throwing light on the still sparkling crystals of the chandelier.
All the furniture was covered in transparent plastic sheets coated in thick layers of dust. Lacey curtains of cobwebs draped across doorways.
Soon, curiosity would take over and she would make her way to her old room. She would rifle through her untouched belongings and wonder if she could piece together the person she used to be when she had lived here.
The birch tree outside her sister’s room still grew tall, but the magnificent rose garden that was the house’s namesake had been overrun with weeds. The stone folly that Emma had always hidden in when they played hide and seek had crumbled away.
She walked into the side parlor. Her footsteps echoed sadly across the cold stone floor, covered in tattered rugs like bandages trying to stop the bleeding of all warmth from the room.
Sighing, Emma made her way to the darkest shadow in the room. She tore the plastic dust covering off, revealing the ebony grand piano under it. Despite the dust covering, the keys were still smudged with dirt and dust.
Gingerly reaching forward, Emma reached forward to press down a key.
The sound thundered out like a rainstorm, washing away the still silence that had previously pervaded the whole manor. Emma flinched away, taken aback by the pure volume of sound.
In her memories, it had been a lot more muffled. Like a bird trapped in a cage too tiny for it to stretch out its wings. Now, it seemed completed uninhibited, blasting out with reckless abandon.
Emma reached forward to play another note, and then another, until she was playing a song.
She laughed at how completely out-of-tune it was.
It obviously hadn’t been played in a very long time.
“You’re sounding a little raspy,” she told it.
It shrilled in protest.
Over the course of months, she would have to go through room by room, looking through old belongings, cleaning and refurbishing. But for now, she just played, trying to soak up all the forgotten memories that lingered in the floorboards of her childhood home.