Crackling Thicket

        The autumn leaves crinkle and crack under my feet as I step toward the house. If you can even call it that. The door hangs precariously by one singular hinge as if it's a loose baby tooth itching to be pulled out by a small child's grimy fingers. The wood is splattered with dirt, moss crawling around its exterior like a flocked emerald cobra. It’s a scene straight out of a horror film. I begin to creep closer but stop abruptly when a scent of decay assaults my senses. The musty decomposition engulfs my nostrils until its taste lingers on my tongue. Still, I press on, only to stumble over a loose nail. I repulsively pull myself up, moist droplets now clinging to the hairs on my arm. Regaining my footing, I step a foot through the dilapidated doorway.
        It's uncharacteristically serene, and small, like if houses were adults this would be a toddler. My eyes are drawn to the corner, where a weathered dresser stands tall against the back wall. The handles possess the glint of wide ocean waters in the morning, despite the crumbling appearance of its counterparts. Curious, I pull the topmost drawer outwards. There's a singular pearl necklace inside, well-preserved and delicate. I start to wonder why it's here. Where it came from. Thousands of scenarios flick through my head. An elegant woman carefully removes her pearls after a dinner party, a spouse hides them as a gift for a special occasion, a teen saves them for a romantic date night; so many possibilities in this singular string of creamy white pearls. I grip them carefully, deciding to carry on their legacy. The fall breeze of the forest drafts through the windows as I clasp them around my neck. I smile- their story becomes my own.