Their house was thin,
and like colourful paper long bleached by the sun. Hallways stretched
and bent, ushering the sounds of heavy footsteps across floorboards
and through the circle of empty rooms. Wind chimes were valiant in
hushing the silence, speaking through the warm summer breezes that
made the house an oxymoron; always speaking.
Her father smiled, ('I've brought this; I thought you might like it.' / 'Thank you, Hiashi-sama. I do.') and was good while unaware--
that when she closed careful eyes, she saw his face as scarred, three by three with a smile that
spoke of scraped knees through happiness--
that when he
spoke, it was of laments to ears six feet under and deaf to
his world, to the mission he missed, and blank scrolls.
Their house was of placeholders and stand-ins.