Alba trespassed on her dead brother’s yard. No one would notice; Mark built his house as a secluded military base. The grass had grown a good six inches since her last visit. Vines had crept up to cover the maple wood that once hid beneath the peeled ghost yellow paint. Joseph, the dreary clerk, explained that Henry, Mark’s son, owned the place now. He refused to sell or even approach the house. He left it here in the brush, out of sight yet still in reach. It was hard for her to imagine that little Henry was grown now. He was eleven when Alba last saw him. She wondered if he would even recognize her. He probably wouldn’t. He wouldn’t want to either. Why would he want to see the aunt who failed to come home even for her brother’s funeral.
Alba pulled the horse keychain from her purse; it was the one that reminded her of the great plains out west. The keys jangled in the early October breeze with a dog-like excitement. She gripped the knob and it stirred. At least someone remembered her. Inside, she tickled the silent tables, she played with the light switches, and she danced with the curtains. She even rattled the chandelier. As she did, the house softly yet eagerly woke. Alba heard walls reminiscing with doors. Memories of feral dances, games of mahjong, and quiet mornings returned to the building’s leaky mind.
She listened to the creaks and moans, the language of objects. She knew it well, even when she was little. One thing remained constant throughout her life: if you listened deep enough even the voices of somber stones were clear. Anyone could master the skill but only Alba did. No one else cared to shut their mouths, eyes, or minds to just be. Especially not Mark. He would go on about his dreams, fears, and mundane adventures, and for some reason unknown to Alba, people listened. The furniture didn’t mind; it liked to listen too. She could sense that it was waiting. It yearned to hear such diatribes once again.
“Poor old house,” she said. “Don’t give up. Someday, someone will stay. ”
It wouldn’t be her. Soon she would vanish again and it would be years, maybe another decade, before she would return. She was a tide, something trapped in constant motion, something that would— if bottled— cease to be what it was before. Maybe it was cruel to come, to awaken the house lonely only to leave it again, but then again, little hope could go a long way.
Alba made her way into Mark’s study. She moved some lazy boxes and found it: a long, curvy, dusty case and inside the red guitar. She played a few chords. She did not play them well, mind you; she was rusty but the guitar didn’t judge her. It would have once. Now it was older, more mature, and a little rusty itself. She gave it a tune then played.
Alba played an easy song, a beginner song, the first or second song that she and her brother had learned together.
The guitar responded. It took Alba’s toying with the strings and turned it into music. It transformed her faded memory into a tapestry woven with sound. She was there. Alba had her blue acoustic guitar. Mark had his red one. For the first time in their lives, they were moving at the same pace. They found each other in music. They understood each other in a way that words could never allow. Even if they played the instrument for different reasons, when they made music together, they were harmony.
Life would go on. The space between them would grow thicker. But from time to time they would still play a song or two and harmonize once again. Alba feared she might never feel that way again but here she was, playing his guitar and touching that faded emotion. She sped up. Her fingers danced across the strings like water striders on a pond. With notes and chords she told the guitar stories of Mark it never had the chance to see: from his school days, to his wedding, to the crazy parties he used to throw.
The guitar returned the notes with stories of its own. It sang of Mark teaching Henry to play the very song Mark and Alba taught themselves all those years ago, it sang of the passion in the eyes of father and son. It sang of Mark’s wish for his son to keep playing when he was gone.
Alba sat playing in the abandoned house for sometime. The whole building found itself ensnared in a web of nostalgic peace. Alba found her brother there with her. He lived on in her fragile melody. She and the house welcomed him home.
“We haven’t forgotten you,” they said.
Mark gently smiled and stroked the soft tender walls. The light was fading. Alba’s numb fingers throbbed. She wanted to keep playing and never stop. She wanted to take this red guitar with her on her journey and summon Mark’s memory whenever she wished. But she and the guitar both knew she wasn’t its rightful owner. Mark wasn’t either, anymore. He had a wish and she would grant it.
She lifted her tired fingers from the strings. The gentle hum of Mark’s ghost was replaced with silence. She swiftly returned the guitar to its case and slung it over her shoulder. She bade farewell to the light switches, the curtains, and the chandelier… to the walls and the doors… to the house. As she stepped back into the long grass, her leg brushed against a patch of false spirea that had escaped from the garden. It clung to her, almost begging her not to go.
Alba walked alone down an overgrown gravel road, under the stars and the rustling, gossiping sycamores. Alba paid them no mind. She didn’t have the energy for their antics tonight.
A small white house came into view on her left. It belonged to not-so-little Henry. Alba stepped up onto the wooden porch. It gave an aggressive creek. It regarded her as an outsider and a suspicious one at that.
It was right. She was an outsider.
Alba took a deep breath, she placed the guitar at the base of the curious door, and she turned back into the darkness. She left town that night.
A few months later a “For Sale” sign appeared in front of the old house along with a fresh coat of paint. It was golden like the rays of the rising sun.
Another few months and a girl no older than eleven arrived at the yard after a long walk home from school. She dodged her brother’s toys, passed the bright chattering leaves of the potted prayer plant, and climbed up to the door.
The knob creaked, “Welcome home.”