57994 nostalgia

It lies down a back street to the hinterlands of memory, where a gate opens to a foggy yard; wet grass, dripping leaves. Something is there: sensed, but not seen. Something old: its shriveling chrysalis exposes a rotting core. It emits the aroma of corruption. Once a fulsome object of longing, now hollow, it sighs with the melancholy echo of a nightingale.