There are no clocks inside this house.

The walls are quiet, the windows loud.

The absence of time, prevalent through every thread of fabric, every drop of paint that covers the walls. Like stepping out of the world and into time in-between.

There is life in everything in this house. In the clothes strewn over the couch, the shoes that pile at the door and the crumpled bags of mint and books, keys and pens, stuffed animals and a bag of chips, that wilt.

Cleaning days seem to strip it of its soul, as though pulling back its warm embrace.

The mess, that's where all the life resides.

The mug with chocolate milk that sticks to the bottom. The one with coffee drops that stain the outside. The one that's left no trace of its drink, almost like it was never even used. The only sign it was, is that it sits in the sink.

The socks that sit in a basket, unmatched, promising an adventure everyday. A promise to keep you there for a moment, lingering for just a little longer before you disappear in a whirlwind of noise.

The broken mirrors in all the odd places, ensuring  that you bend in uncomfortable directions to get a look at yourself. Each crack a story for another time.

The lamps of light, only half of which work, just barely light some rooms while others burn so bright, every inch of the room seems to glow.

The chairs and couches in the living room, each its own shape and colour, like patchwork.

There sit boxes of all ages and sizes. Going from holding oreos to sugar free vanilla cake, from homemade cookies to medicine wrapped in plastic.

Posters that hang limp on walls and odd drawings that stick to the fridge. Grocery lists and reminders plastered on windows and on doors, speaking of deadlines at work to middle school exams. Dialogues of a play and whispers of encouragement.

Gaming consoles and old remotes, books that tell stories and those that teach photosynthesis. Scribbled notes of dreams unsaid and scratched numbers of weekly bills.

There is no date, no time in this house.

Only whispers of those who live.

And even the walls and windows grieve at the thought of losing them.

Picked off, one by one, as time moves on outside. The boxes creak at softened oreos, the mugs crack at curdled milk on the small nightstand, the coffee stains like tear drops, now part of the ceramic and the books screech, now eaten by live bookworms.

There are no clocks inside this house.

But time prevails in loss and grief.

And the house, once full, now sits empty.

Once someone's safe haven now its own purgatory.

Syeda Erum Noor is devoted to learning about the craft of writing and is an avid reader who can talk endlessly about the magic of books. Reach her at

@syedaerumnoorwrites.