One morning, I woke feeling empty and confused. You left the house you never bothered to name. Only then did I realize the sky above it had always belonged to someone else. I grew this place from a seed. Yet somehow, it was never enough for you. Perhaps because there was nothing extravagant about it. But every ornament was chosen by my hands. Every painting was a portrait of me. The floor held my knees when I had nowhere else to fall. The walls carried my weight when I needed something to lean on. When you disappeared, the silence spread through the house like cracked tiles. I refused to shatter into anger. I had no strength left to raise my voice. The rain you brought became a storm inside the home I had spent so long protecting. Perhaps I deserved the gray clouds, or perhaps I only believed I did. But this house still belongs to me, even if you never did.