If walls could talk

           They had seen so much, the walls in the small, dusty, room. Thirteen families had come and gone by the time the Walls learned of the appointment. Perhaps it was only to be expected, the house had stood on this same shady corner for almost ninety years. The knowledge didn't exactly shock the Walls, they were quite level-headed really, but it did add a new, more pensive cord to the slow, throbbing, melancholy of a lonely house.

            The Walls had seen so many different lives that they all ran together at times, but if there was one thing the Walls were good at it was remembering. The Walls could have told of jolly, blond, Mrs. Gardener, with her extensive collection of cookbooks and cats, or maybe of the twin boys who played in the room when it was a space for forgotten furniture. Perhaps they'd have mentioned their time as a nursery, painted  a pale, cheerful, yellow for Lucy Small, who had a habit of doodling brightly in purple and orange crayon on the wall by her dollhouse. They often thought, in the slow meandering way of walls, about their last, and favorite, occupant; the absent-minded old man by the name of Mr. Rule.

            Mr. Rule was a thoughtful, quiet, sort of person, rather like the Walls, and he always appeared a little too tall, as if he been stretched a bit at one time or another. Mr. Rule spent his time at either the scratchy oak desk in the corner, or sitting in the green and yellow striped armchair studying one of the musty books from his handcrafted shelves.

            It was when he put the book down and stared intently at the faded floral wallpaper, long gnarled fingers neatly interlaced, that he would sometimes talk to the Walls. At least, that was how the Walls saw it. Mr. Rule could quite easily have been talking to himself, just straightening out his thoughts as he would one of his many unraveling sweaters. He rarely left the house after all, and visitors were few and far between.

            After so many years, marked primarily by the changing shades of paint, the Walls' thoughts often stuck together, or twisted in lazy circles, and so it always was when it came to Mr. Rule. The Wall recalled the day the old man's words simply trailed to a stop, leaving him staring mistily into the corner by the window where the wallpaper had a tendency to peel. Mr. Rule never spoke to the Walls again. Yes, the Walls might have talked about him.

            But the Walls were silent, as walls most often are.