What Remains
by: Crystal Lewis
Just five blocks up from the local grocery store sits an old, widowed home. Its once white exterior is now scorched black with its wood slabs barely hanging on by a thread. Charred windows vacantly stare at the street like tired eyes that have seen too much. The front steps, warped and splintered, lead to a door that no longer exists; an entrance to nowhere. The backyard that was once lush and full is now matted by the footsteps of passersby who come and go, leaving behind only the faint echoes of their presence. Stray weeds push through the cracks in the pavement, the last remnants of a garden that once thrived under careful hands.
Once upon a time, these burned-down ruins were a home filled with love and comfort. The usual sounds of laughter that habitually filled these four walls are now overshadowed by the sound of howling wind. The air, thick with the scent of charred wood and rain-soaked ash, still holds a trace of a familiar floral scent. Now the house stands frozen in time, neither truly abandoned nor truly alive. The floors are a patchwork of char and ash, the walls peeling and cracked, the ceiling in places caved in, exposing the bones of the house to the open sky. The rest of the rooms are mostly empty now. Whatever furniture once filled them has long since been claimed by the fire and destruction.
And then there’s her room. Her things are still here. It’s the only one still holding on. As if the fire had spared it or as if it refused to let go of what once belonged to it. The bed still stands in the center of the room. Although it’s in bad shape, it’s the only one left in the entire house. The closet door is slightly ajar, revealing a single pink jacket lying tucked in the corner of the floor. Time has taken its toll—the fabrics are fragile, coated in dust, but it remains in the corner, untouched. The first time I saw this room, I couldn’t move. It was as if the air had thickened around me, holding me in place. I tried to picture her—what she looked like, what her voice sounded like, whether she had been happy in those last moments before everything turned to smoke. It felt wrong, almost invasive, to be standing in a space that had once been hers. And yet, I couldn’t look away.
It feels wrong. The way everything else in the house has been gutted and broken down, but this room remains, waiting. Like it’s patiently waiting for her to return home, like she used to. It makes me wonder if she ever knew, in those final moments, that she would never return. If she realized that the clothes she picked out that morning, the bed she made without a second thought, would become artifacts of a life interrupted.
I was 16 years old the first time I visited the old home. Around the same age, she was when she died. Back then, it was just a story that kids passed around, but standing in her room, seeing her things still there, untouched, it stopped being just a story. It became something heavier, something I couldn’t quite explain. People come here all the time now. They laugh, they take pictures, and they leave their mark in the form of graffiti. To them, this place is nothing more than an urban legend. To me, it’s something else. It’s a reminder that life isn’t as permanent as we like to believe. That a home, a life, a person can vanish in an instant, leaving only fragments behind.
Vitals for call:
Pulse – 119
Spo2 – 98
Bp – 150/90
Pulse – 82
Spo2 – 98
Bp – 158/78