© 2025 Irrelin. All rights reserved https://suno.com/@irrelin Took the late train back to the house I don’t call “home” out loud Coats on the same old hook, suitcases in the hallway, family filling rooms with small talk and store-bought sweets. The house is half-packed, drawers labeled with years we half-remember, chairs waiting to be chosen like they might choose us back. Every doorway plays old clips of grandma sewing by the window, granddad tracing quiet smoke rings into the night. I walk slow so I don’t break the room, my city voice too loud for this soft kitchen air. Out there I’m always “fine”, in here I’m five again, trying not to cry at ordinary things. Someone says, “Take whatever you want,” but all I want is the way the walls still know my name. We leave keys on the counter, car doors slam out in the cold, and I realize one day I’ll just be “she used to live here too” in somebody else’s story. The life I made keeps moving on outside, but inside my chest this house sits down and stays, a picture of memory playing louder than the present, never quite fading, no matter how far I go.
