At that moment, she felt lonely and strange, like the place. Detained in time, separated from the flow of life, embalmed in the strangeness of that dwelling. The aura of the place was different and also was the light that caressed her eyes. Maybe the absence of people disarmed her, surely the emptiness around remained at variance, as a huge warning of our fragility. There and then, it seemed that animals were the owners, that they suffered equally but at the same time were unaware of the force of nature, weren’t they?

On the floor, the pitcher full of water stayed, synonymous with life, the life that hid in corners, that escaped through open windows. Easily, the woman would take comfort in once again surrounding the pitcher in her arms, feeling its weight and freshness, even humidity as it was filled with water, that precious asset for life.

In moments, she’d be walking out that old abode, leaving it more alone than ever, no matter how much she looked at it, she couldn’t take the cherished ambiance with her, but It’d remain engraved in her thoughts, eyes and heart.

Does it matter not being able to step softly on that ground again? nor breathing fresh air, nor swallowing silence and filling the ears with many sensations? Not really, everything was kept in her heart.