The house was aging gracefully with every passing year. Its memories lived between the layers of paint and cast off belongings in the attic. It could still hear the cries of the newborn babies that had stayed up all night with their exhausted nannies. It could still feel the touch of its Mistress as if she was walking the halls at night, her fingers delicately caressing the damask lined walls. It could still feel the weight of the Master’s spirit as he had ruled his wife and children’s every thought and move. For years it had tried to forget the Mistress’s last night. After Master had attacked her, she had climbed out the upstairs window, with shaky hands she had lit and smoked her last cigarette. The cigarette stained deep red, not with lipstick, but with her dark blood. Her soul had flown away hours before she jumped to her eternal freedom. Its current occupants thought the noises they heard at night were the settling and creaking of floors and walls, they never considered the house was still weeping for the loss. Yes, the house remembered.