I dreamt of a house,
too old but not yet ancient.
I had never seen it before,
nor had I any memory
of ever being there.
And yet it felt more familiar
than anything I know,
as if somewhere in my mind
I had been there—
seen that place once,
but could no longer recall clearly.
I was a little afraid
of the dark corner it held,
as passing thoughts of shadows
crept from nowhere to elsewhere.
I believe I heard it said—
in a vivid murmur,
half-whispered in my dream—
that I was the one
who owned that place.
And when the time came to leave,
I heard others trying to claim it.
And somehow I,
still alive, still breathing—
never once feeling dead,
nor ever believing I was—
became the ghost
that haunts that house
in my dream.
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