The house was quiet besides the crackles and pops of the still live embers from the burning logs set into the wood stove, and the soft pings and pongs of water dripping from the kitchen sink. And the short breath of the man on the recliner. The heat kills the chilling air inside the cabin. The Old man sits in his chair books piled beside him on the spruce wood side table. The man is tall and lengthy almost sickly and anorexic looking. His eyes sunken deep into his face, the unique prints on his hands telling every story. The lilac floral print in the empty dining room for two shows there was once a lady in this house tells the colour of these walls. The house was quiet beside the soft pings and pongs of water dripping from the kitchen sink. And the short breath of the man on the recliner. Warm Christmas cheer was non-existent in the house; at least not anymore. The solitude of the house got to him sometimes. The missing and longing for the thing humans crave the most…. Human touch. Tears dripped down the imperfections of the man's face looking up onto the mantel. “Hi, Emily…” the man breathed ready to be reunited with his wife. The house was quiet besides the soft pings and pongs of the water dripping from the kitchen sink.
