Autumn in blackened houses

A rainy evening has lowered its gray veils over the forgotten village. The old houses, like forgotten children, stood in silence, sighing under the weight of time. The autumn wind caressed the abandoned streets, bringing with it the smell of damp earth and withered leaves. Everything was immersed in the shadow of the extinct past. The village well, which once radiated life, now stood alone, its wooden roof rotted from time, and only rare raindrops broke in its forgotten depths. The water splashed like a slow-motion chant about what once was. The old mill house, like a guardian of village secrets, towered by the steep bank of the river. His lop-eared wings, devoid of work, stood motionless, and the windows, like eyes, looked into the distance, remembering the times when the crackling of wheels and the murmur of water sounded here. The yellowed foliage that covered the narrow paths creaked under the feet of anyone who dared to ride through this forgotten corner. Red, yellow and brown leaves became a carpet, muffling footsteps, as if covering the entrance to a world where time stood still. Houses built with love and warmth were now suffering from oblivion. The last smoke left the chimneys long ago, and the fireplace inserts froze in their iron embrace. The open windows invited the wind inside, and that, in turn, whispered mysterious stories about the life that once burned here. There was a lone lantern on the old village square, its glass was covered with a cloudy film. Twilight turned the weathered walls of the houses into ghosts, which heavily bore the weight of lost moments. Here, among the ruins, one could hear the whisper of the old walls, as if they had told their secrets of autumn. And now a pale light flashes in the dark corner of the old barn. A lone candle dances in the breeze, revealing the shadows of the past on the floor. In this light, you can see the sagging shelves on which paints and tools once dozed. An old artist, forgotten by time, once created his works here, capturing the beauty of village life. Autumn in an abandoned village revived the souls of those who left their mark in this corner of the world. Through the darkness of the past, the smiles of children, the ringing of streams, the warmth of native homes could be seen. But now it was all just a shadow floating on the autumn winds. And so, this evening, the autumn rain washed the forgotten streets, creating its own music on the old roofs and paths. The forgotten village remained in the arms of autumn, sad and atmospheric, like the last chord in the passing century.