This is my first mystery/tragidy so please be nice.
Disclaimer: I don't own FMA in any way shape or form.
Hint for reading: watch for symbolism
She looked at its pained windows, feel its strain. Winry's heart went out to the house with its empty rooms, bare furnace, and dusty kettle. They were so alike; each longing for their emptiness to be filled.
Pulse
There was the resonance of a dull ringing of the phone through the empty old house. The rooms were vacant, shabby sheets clung to the unused furniture, whispering, whispering.
The old phone on its cordless receiver rings on and on in the repetition of closed doors. No voice, human or mechanic, is present to lull the cry. Only the walls, bare in their glory, hear its tone. Once gleaming with fresh white paint, they are now a sickly yellow color, a stain of disgust left by the gentle sun through the twisted windows where the young boys often aimed stones.
The weary porch slumped forward on its haunches, the fiendish aroma of decay filtering through the boards. Holes in the ashen roof not quite patched over, no longer nestled patient mothers rocking in the shade; no proud fathers lingered in the doorway. No great aunt shook out the bed sheets or tipped her nose arrogantly. The mistress was not busy cleaning, trailed by the young master, his hand latched to her cotton skirt. The house was empty.
The floors once so freshly polished in the gleaming morning light were now so misshapen that they resembled the imprint a boot makes in mud. Children used to play on these floors, dressing frilly dollies, racing toy trains and cars across the imaginary tracks. Their merriment faded into the seams of the sinking floor and wasted furnishings. The house was empty now.
The table that housed the illustrious turkey and glazed apple pie was barely standing on its decaying three legs, swaying when the foundation was rocked by some particular wind. It was years after its sophisticated prime of which many shoveled down the good cooking of the house's mistress, gleefully giving thanks for the roasted ham and breaded pork chops.
The big kitchen with its broad pantry and deep sink was now tarnished and dingy, its cabinets infested with rats; the large dishes dirty. It was still, despite its putrid stench and missing stove, the comfort of the dying old house.
The phone sounds solemnly in the empty old house, the quite house, the lonely, empty house. The ringing pulsates with it, beating, beating.
Eventually, the patient caller in his white overcoat and heavy degrees hangs up in frustration. The line turns dead to the shaky hand that now grasps the receiver. It fades. The whisky air touches whitened hair, gently. The gloom is now quiet again.
Now, unfamiliar company lines the streets beyond the gated fence. The children's faces are foggy and unclear, dusty like her memory. There is a man among them in red and white calling softly "Do you remember? Do you remember?" They stand staring and waiting in black uniforms.
And she stared back, long worn from the upkeep of the failing house. Unable to restore her once radiant prosperity, she looked at the friends she did not know, the grandchildren she could not remember; she closed her eyes to rest…
And fell.
Author's note: I tried to use a lot of symbolism, but I guess it was too unclear the first time. Is this draft a little clearer?