The House Remembers

Summary: In a realm unbound by time and memory, they struggle to recall their relationship with the house.

The house was, is, and will be. I cannot remember when it began, nor when it ended. If either ever did. I am not sure if I am a particular person or the spirit of the house, but I can behold the history of all who walked within, through their own eyes. Perhaps it does not matter if I am an amnesiac spirit or genius loci. It is still a strange regardless.

I stepped through a ruined room, overgrown with greenery. A second later, I behold a decadent party at the house's heyday. I behold the masked lord of the house, having a liaison with his maid. I behold the lady of the house, having her own outing with a carpenter. Neither cares about the other's infidelity, as their marriage is a loveless one of political convenience.

I walked down the hillside that would one day be the house. The surveyor walks down the hillside, making a final measurement of the property. The architect drafts up the tiled roof and grand, vaulted hall that will define the structure in its glory days. A young nobleman looks them over and approves.

I saw a courier frantically run into the house, handing a communique to a general. The entire house has been converted into a field headquarters, due to the enemy forces moving down the nearby road. The general goes over a familiar map, before sending off his light infantry. The courier rushes back out the door, new orders in hand. Something crashes into the upper floors, and the courier runs faster.

I stepped out the front door, where I see the destroyed house. Scaffolding surrounds the dead, rotting husk of the building, like scabbing around wound. An older man, similar to the carpenter, looks over the approved revisions. He signs off on them, and a familiar little girl runs up to him. He picks her up, pointing at the house.

Perhaps I am one of these people, none of them, or all of them. It matters little. The house was, the house is, and the house will be. I do not know where it began, nor where it ended. I only know the house, and the house remembers.