Whimpers of the Light

01 - The House

Part 1

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning, striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

—

"The Wasteland", T.S. Eliot

Light snowflakes fell in a synchronised dance. The layers they created started covering all traces of what had lain beneath. Time was frozen over the street.

His boots crunched over the snow, each step compacting it into a reminder of his presence — a trail he didn't like leaving behind. Still, he had faith they would soon be covered again and his way forgotten. Ahead, an old two-story brick house, the wooden beams of its roof exposed, offering no resistance to the delicate white flecks drifting inside. Might be something valuable within.

He eased the wooden door open, his gaze darting to ensure he caught anything inside before it moved on him. All was still. With a click, he turned on his flashlight, its cold blue beam cutting through the dimness, scanning the room. The windows had been barred long ago, letting in no light but his, as dust-coated furniture sat untouched. The room might have once been cosy if you ignored what time had done with the place; a couch was facing an old, lifeless chimney, and for a moment, he could picture himself sitting before a warm fire. Not having anything to burn — just another futile thought — he shut the door behind him.

A thin fog of dust hung in the air, its particles moving away from him with each step. The light caught them, making it harder to see, so he killed the beam, letting his eyes adjust. The house creaked and groaned under the weight of wind pushing through cracks in the walls above. If there was something inside, it remained silent, waiting.

He waited, too, listening to the house breathe until shadows became shapes again. Room by room, he searched, just as he had done countless times before — methodically — his back always towards the spaces he had already cleared.

He went up to the second floor, the outside light pouring inside freely through broken beams and shattered windows. Dust, wood and snow littered the floor, but the walls still stood. Echoes of a life long past lingered in discarded objects: pictures, books, and toys. But nothing of value amidst this museum of life, no sign of living people either — hardly a surprise.

From the main bedroom, he could see the city below, now buried beneath a white blanket. This time of year, it almost resembled its former self — no greenery, just endless concrete and metal. A giant sea of stone, humanity's monument to hubris, now crumbling under the weight of time and snow. He remembered the city had been taller and sharper, but time and weather had ground down the towers. Someday, perhaps, it would all be gone.

He shook off the thought; there were still doors left unchecked. He always did that last. It's safer this way. He headed back downstairs to finish his search.

#

When he opened the last door, he could feel something was wrong. The stairs led down into darkness, but the smell triggered him — a sickening blend of rot, dust, blood, and moisture — the scent of death.

Three of them laid on the floor, their bones poking through tattered skin. One had been a woman, tall and slim, maybe she had been beautiful once. She still was — in a twisted way. Her dress pressed against the stone floor; the mould bloomed across the fabric like grotesque flowers, the first stage of an infection that would spread.