but the roses have wilted, and these doors will not close.

I fit my arm through the open space between the bars connected to the garage and the front entrance. After lifting the heavy metal lock holding the garage door in its place, I slowly push the door into a gap large enough for me to slide through.

I observe my surroundings– our front garden is wild. The grass lies a few inches below my knees, the roses have wilted, the fresno tree and the palm tree reach for the sky, taller than they ever were before, sending the entire area into the shadows.

The front door is coated in a thin layer of dust. Cobwebs hang delicately from the golden doorknob. The plants beside me smell like fresh dew.

There appears to be no one inside the house, but I can hear hushed voices from what appears to be a casual conversation. Someone laughs. There are outlines of people, but their faces are blurred. A man, perhaps. A woman. A young boy.

Am I really there?

I wiggle the handle, feeling it stand firmly against the weight of my hand.

Knowing the door will not budge, I remember the laundry room we never locked that led straight to the kitchen.

I walk down the small path stretched along the side of the house. It had a fence separating the alley from the backyard. Our dog would oftentimes frantically dig holes beneath it during firework season in an attempt to outrun the blasts of sound.

The rugged cement on the floor showcases the paw-prints of feral cats who roamed the house before we moved in, when the mix was still wet.

I used to trace those paw prints with chalk– the powder coated my fingers.

The grass is even longer on this side.

The fence that separated the alley from the backyard is shorter; I can easily climb over it.

I land on the loud crunch of piles and piles of wilted leaves and unruly weeds.

It is strange to see the yard empty. A pang of sadness overwhelms my stomach.

I can almost hear our dogs running around the yard.

I can almost see our oldest one walking on his same worn path on the grass from one end to the other as we called him inside.

Everything lies in stillness. Not a single sound. Not even a miserable cricket.

There is no one there.

I am all alone.

The door leading to the laundry room is open. It does not creak.

The machines themselves are reddened with rust, but the scent of detergent still wafts from them.

The inside of the house is the same.

Clouds of dust form tornados with every single one of my footsteps.

The piano is there, even with a few of the knick-knacks we kept on top of it;

its deep cherry wood is as vivid and beautiful as it ever was.

I press a few of the keys. They are out of tune. The sound of the notes sound as though they are underwater, or very far away. The whispers become louder, more frantic.

Maybe we can tune it again someday, I think absentmindedly.

I head toward the staircase, pressing the tips of my fingers against the walls. The first sight I encounter at the top of the stairs: the cabinet where we kept crafting paper with its two swinging doors that would never fully close. I try once again to slam them shut, for old times’ sake. The bodiless whispers that followed along completely disappear at the first impatient slam on my part. For some reason, the air around me reverberates with fear.

Damn doors still won’t close.

The balcony overlooking the living room from the second floor is closer to the ground.

Our rooms are the same color they were before we coated them with eggshell white paint: a deep turquoise.

A few of our belongings piled neatly on our beds.

The farewell cards, a dry bouquet of flowers, markers that suddenly ran out of ink.

Why do I feel watched? Why are these voices here?

I see my reflection on the dirtied surface of the mirror my sister hung on her side of the room: I am barely a grey shadow. Every part of me is translucent, and my clothes seem old and out of place.

That’s when it hits me.

What if the house is not actually intact?

What if there already are people living there and they see a different version of what I think is standing before me?

Maybe I am the uninvited guest in this home that is no longer my own–

Maybe I am the ghost of my own memory.

I smile in my sleep.