The malfunctioning streetlights flicker on and off, reflecting light off the snow and onto her bereaved, effete face. The smell of winter rides through the air with vengeance, as if battling with the harsh summer that swept the area earlier this year. The crackling of the ground as she steps, the screaming wind, and the buzzing of the streetlamps echo in the wintry night.

The cold, menacing wind tosses her hair about and wraps the locks around her face as she slowly makes her way down the ruined, icy street. She pulls the hair from her eyes and abruptly stops. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see that house-that desolate, broken-down house. That house, once intact and full of life, now stands in shambles-a victim of negligence.

Examining the structure, she makes note of the changes that the years have brought. Weathered shingles barely hang from each side of the roof. Where windows once existed, shards of glass protrude from their respective frames, like jagged, pointy teeth. The door-closed for four years now-barely remains hinged as the wind spitefully taunts at it.

She urges herself to continue walking, but her memories keep her captivated with the ravaged house. The wind seems to pull her, tempting her to enter. She walks down the slippery cement path, holding out her arms to keep balance. Her effort seems in vain, however, as she loses her footing and crashes to the ground. Using the packed snow as her only leverage, she regains her footing and stands up.

Carefully, she walks up the decaying, wooden, snow-covered stairs. She reaches out and swipes away the loosely packed snow, allowing her to grip the feeble, splintered railing. Trembling, she turns the icy cold doorknob, manages to open the barely hinged door, and enters the house.

Standing in the threshold, the musty smell hits her-shocking her senses. All the furniture lingers like spirits in purgatory, making the house appear still inhabited. Through the cracks in the walls rushes vapid light from the flickering streetlamp, illuminating only the living room.

She scans the room, taking note of everything. Cobwebs and dust thickly coat the television stand and countertops. The once vibrant, blue carpet has faded to a dull, smoky gray. She takes no interest in any of this. Instead, she only focuses on one object-that couch. She sullenly approaches the couch, disregarding the creaking of the weak floorboards and rusty nails that protrude from the threadbare carpet. Much of the couch seems covered with stains and dust, leaving the memorable red color indiscernible. The couch exudes the same musty smell of the room, only strong enough to make her retch. She gazes at the heinous piece of furniture reminiscently. Every thread leaks with violation-reeking with obscenity, polluted with the likes of that abhorrent, despicable man. Seeing the couch in such a tattered state seems to atone for the foul deed he had committed.

A wolf-like howl of the wind breaks the silence, startling her and sending chills up her spine. She turns from the couch and walks back to the door. Twisting the knob, the door becomes unhinged and the wind tosses it to the ground. That door will forever be open.

She exits the house, descends the staircase, and bears the journey, once again, on the icy, cement walkway. She stops in front of the house and gives one last long stare. The wind, then, takes hold of her scarf, beckoning her to continue her voyage on the long, ruined street. Giving in, she walks away-leaving the immoral house behind.