Rain taps gently on the sagging roof as wind whispers through cracked windowpanes. Inside the old abandoned house, a small fire crackles in the rusted stove, casting flickering amber light across peeling wallpaper and dusty floorboards. Wrapped in a worn quilt, I sip steaming tea, the scent of damp wood and dry leaves filling the air. Outside, autumn’s chill deepens, but here—nestled among forgotten furniture and memories of another time—I feel strangely safe. The house groans softly, as if sharing its secrets. For one quiet night, this decaying shelter becomes a haven: imperfect, eerie, yet undeniably cozy.
