"Deja-Vu."
Isis.
The paint over the soft wood is deep like the way her "mother" used to spread her cream cheese over layers of sponge. The flakes peel at random depths showing different sun-baked hues underneath. In this way, in its decrepitude, the old house has become more beautiful. The door, once cherry red, is just the same, though the peelings are all shades of a pink that surrendered to the high August sun.
I'm sure it will move on its hinges still, but with the weariness of an old man. It would probably creak like the moan echoing to the rafters that still fight the sagging roof above. The windows no longer beckon light inside, no longer lift the gloom that the walls impose. Instead they add to the growing sense of damp and dark and permit the chill wind to penetrate.
Isis stared at her old home and resided in her head, on their way to the police station.
