Author: Ritika Jain, Class VIII E
I used to sit on a bench,
Where the ocean ends,
And the sky begins.
Watching the waves write stories,
Only the ancient brown sand could read.
The wind spoke with salt and hush,
Thoughts slipping from my pocket,
Some, I wasn’t sure the shore could hold.
Shells giggled like old friends,
Softened by time,
Yet strong, not fragile.
And in that hush between wind and beach,
I left behind a version of me,
Washed clean, unafraid,
Leaping to begin once more.
Beside the old oak tree stands a house with no doors.
A house not broken by burden of expectations,
Nor ruined by the fear of judgement.
A house where each window,
Each brick held a breath.
A house with walls of sighs.
A house that stood still.
Stood still amid all chaos and turmoil.
A house not waiting, not inviting,
Just existing.
With windows that dance in light, doors that taunt the rain,
And a floor that screams nostalgia with every touch.
And if you listen even closely,
You might hear the noise of parties unthrown,
The hush of secrets untold,
And the laughter that once filled up the room, screaming like it’s trying to come back home.
A house with no doors to knock,
No bell to ring and no welcome to expect.
A door having cracks like my grandma’s wrinkled skin,
A door old, not devastated.
Maybe one that’s placed not to be open.
A door that hums the pain inside it when wind’s at its footstep,
A door that listens, but never speaks.
A door that creaks, squeaks, and groans, yet never settles in place.
A house with a living room filled with tons of silence,
Silence that’s heavier than the sound of fireworks,
Maybe lighter than the sound of snores.
A house with a small mirror hanging in the courtyard,
A mirror that observes, but never reveals.
Not judging, not staring.
Just watching.
Some might even say it wasn’t built.
It wasn’t built,
It was cherished, it was remembered
And lastly, it was dreamt.
