A house is no longer a house with the power shut off, the appliances removed. The people who lived here will never return. I will never leave. I drift from room to empty room behind the boarded windows. The carpet goes dark with mold. The walls go light, the paint peeling away. I sometimes sit, with my eyes shut, on the basement floor. But I don't sleep anymore. All night I search for my breath. I drift through the house, from room to empty room. In the daytime, enough light cracks through the walls to shine on a photograph of the people who used to live here. And it makes me feel more dead than before.