There it was, the abandoned red house. Snow had piled against the walls and on the roof, in the middle of which there was a large collapsed hole. Wynona knew who used to live there. This is, was Freya’s home. It was abandoned a long time ago, when Freya along with her siblings and parents moved away. It was so sudden, and Wynona never learned the reason why they had moved. She had always put it as them moving after work. She was saddened when Freya never sent any letters or called her, but after a year or two, she had moved on herself, thinking perhaps Freya had done the same. Regretfully she now knew better.
She stood there in silent wonder for a few moments, reminiscing of the past. Although the moonlight was faint, Wynona could see, as she squinted her eyes, that the door seemed to be open. And there seemed to be footprints leading to the door. She thought of getting closer to the house. But what if there was still someone there? At least no other prints seemed to lead off the premises. Maybe against her better judgement, she went down the slope and approached the house.
The door’s windows were cracked and broken. Wind had blown snow into the vestibule and formed small dunes. Inside it was dark, darker than outside, yet the ever so faint light pouring in from the broken windows were enough to let Wynona navigate herself there. In the end. she had been there many times in the past. Memories of old flooded her mind. The laughter, joy, so many happy memories, now contrasted by the saddening present day’s realities.
Wynona tried to step quietly. The floor’s creaked faintly under her boots. She touched the bare wall with her mittened hand to support herself as she avoided the shards of glass lying on the floor. Once cosy and warm home was now just a wasted and ruined shell. The exposed wires, flaky paint and frosted over shards that still remained in the window panes left no room for doubt or romanticising. The place was now cold and dead. Only few damaged and broken furniture even remained there.
Wynona’s ear twitched and then focused on a sound. It was music, a melody played with a piano. The tune was slightly off, probably because of the elements, but it was recognisable to her. She followed the sound towards the living room. She had to use her hands and memories to help navigating in the dark ruins. Finally she reached the doorway. She breathed deep. It could have been a stranger, a homeless person perhaps, but something inside her knew who she might find when she peaked into the room.
Before Wynona was an old piano from which the music came from. A hooded figure, a woman, was playing the instrument in the faint glow of the moonlight coming from the large broken window next to the pianist. Between her lips was a cigarette, which glowed brighter as the pianist inhaled. It seemed like she didn’t notice she now had an audience. Wynona’s eyes teared up, she wanted to say something, but couldn’t. She knew the song and who was playing it. She knew the lyrics - they were fitting.
