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ISLA
The moment my foot crossed the threshold of the old house, the weight of time pressed against me.
The air was thick, infused with the damp, earthy scent of moss-covered stones, of dust that had settled over the years, and of forgotten stories that lay dormant.
It was an odd mixture of desolation and age.
The chill in the room made my skin prickle.
As I moved further in, my fingers trailed the faded wallpaper, the textures rough and brittle.
The once vibrant patterns, though now almost invisible, whispered tales of days long past.
The echo of my footsteps filled the space, a lone sound in the haunting silence, only to be occasionally interrupted by the distant cawing of a bird or the subtle rustle of some critter hidden within the walls.
Thillak’s voice cut through the stillness, softly narrating our shared history in this very house.
And as he spoke, the grim surroundings began to transform before my eyes.
The dilapidated furniture faded, replaced by visions of cozy armchairs and warm fireplaces.
The cold, lifeless air started to pulse with life.
And then came the smell.
At first, it was faint, like a distant memory that lingers at the edge of consciousness.
It was the unmistakable aroma of freshly baked bread.
The smell became more pronounced, filling the room and overpowering the mold and decay.
The warm, comforting fragrance of yeast and flour sent shivers down my spine, not of cold but of recognition.
In the periphery of my vision, images flickered.
Fleeting moments that danced in and out of my consciousness.
A younger me, laughing and kneading the dough.
The fiery oven, crackling with anticipation.
The sound of bread cooling on the window sill, its crust crackling softly, a symphony to my ears.
A voice, distinctly Thillak’s but different — softer, more youthful — called out to me from the past. “Try it,” he said, a teasing lilt in his voice.
In my hands, the warm loaf of bread felt solid, real.
I could feel the crust’s rough texture, the heat radiating from its center, and the slight give when I pressed it gently.
I tore a piece off, the sound echoing like a nostalgic tune.
The bread was soft and chewy on the inside, with a crust that was the perfect combination of crisp and flaky.
Lost in this whirlwind of sensations, I barely registered Thillak continuing his tale, of how we had lived, loved, and found solace in this very house.
Of how this had been our sanctuary, our home.
But it wasn’t just the story that took me back; it was the raw emotion, the sense of belonging, and the deep, unshakeable bond that resonated with every word Thillak spoke.
