Even though it was late autumn, the inside of the house was comfortably warm. She could still smell them, the memories. Their presence was thick in the still air, choking her from the inside out like a rag doused in kerosene. A torrent of emotions inundated her upon recalling them.

Breaking away from the vice-like grip of her feelings and blinking away the sudden tears, Nishat tentatively stepped into the room to stand beside her brother. Noticing her trembling fingers, Amir took hold of one of her hands and gave it a little, reassuring squeeze. Lifting her head ever so slightly, Nishat exchanged a glance with him before leading him to explore what remained of their home.

The house they lived in as children now looked very different. Dust lay so thickly on all the surfaces that everything seemed to have melted into a medley of decay, leaving the house with no semblance of life. The very carpet that they walked on, the velveteen beige that their mother had installed just a few weeks before her accident, was now stained beyond recognition. The walls that had once been crowded with photographs and certificates lay bare. Their bedroom was empty. The bunk bed was gone. So were the bookcases overflowing with their prized novels and comic books. In one corner lay the broken game console that Amir had begged and begged their father to get. Forgotten, much like all else in this house. It was as if someone had deliberately tried to erase the history of those that had once resided in these halls. And, perhaps, that really was the thing that their father had intended to do. 

After the passing of their mother, their father had sent them away to live with their grandparents. His torment was so great that he could not even bear to look at their faces due to the resemblance they bore of the woman he lost. For a decade he pined away in this desolate house before a stroke finally put him out of his misery. He had never called Nishat or Amir. Not when they were just children trying to cope with the passing of their mother and the absence of their father, and certainly not when they became adults breaking free of the tragedy of their childhood. It was only last week that Nishat received a call from the local police department. They had discovered their father's body after a neighbour reported a smell of decaying flesh from their house.

Nishat suddenly fell heavily on her knees at the threshold to their bedroom, letting out a guttural cry. The hurt in this house was too much. She wanted to rip out the pain and memories from inside her. Despite the kind caresses and words of her brother, all she could do was drown in the reverberation of her own melancholy as her cries bounced off the empty walls. 




Remembrances || Adrita Zaima Islam