Old newspapers

A sign shifted on the door as it swung open, some meaningless drivel about family and love. The room behind it let off a musty, stale smell like old newspapers and mould. A pair of boots had been discarded by the stairs, dried mud flaked all over the entrance. The old house shifted as if recognising the visitor. Memories came back of happier times, when the world seemed too big to know and the future held dreams and so much to discover. Those dreams long since faded and replaced with a foreboding sense of eternal drudgery. Only so much could be achieved in these parts and expectations were low.

The mud crunched underfoot and the musty smell got worse further on down the hall. The door to the kitchen stood half open, as if left swinging while in a hurry. Pushing it open wafted the foul smell even more and the source of it was clearly the pile of garbage in the corner. "How long since anyone was here? Why was I never told?" The questions lingered like a bee sting, hovering in the still air like a father Christmas in the breeze.

"You never showed an interest before, why should you now?"

"They were my parents."

"They may as well have not had you for all you gave them."

"But they were my parents."

"And they hated themselves for it."