This isn't your house but you feel like you've been here before.
The banisters are worn with your touch, the steps with your tread, the door handles with your cautious grip.
It is all in your imagination surely?
Still the house has something of you in every room.
A painting whose face is your exact likeness, a vase your once saw in town, the flowers your aunt grows.
Somehow something has made this place for you.
A scuffle in the east wing may be them.
Sharp shadows that slink into locked doors may be them.
The faint warmth of breath on the back of your neck may be them.
The banisters are worn with your touch, the steps with your tread, the door handles with your cautious grip.
It is all in your imagination surely?
Still the house has something of you in every room.
A painting whose face is your exact likeness, a vase your once saw in town, the flowers your aunt grows.
Somehow something has made this place for you.
A scuffle in the east wing may be them.
Sharp shadows that slink into locked doors may be them.
The faint warmth of breath on the back of your neck may be them.
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