I had already started the climb. The ornate wooden banister felt cold under my hand, the timber giving way to the undeniable texture of long decay. It is rare to move through a house like this without the floorboards protesting your presence, but it was a sound from outside that finally stopped me — the sharp, sudden call of a blackbird echoing through the empty hall.
I turned back toward the sound. From halfway up the stairs, the architecture of the space reasserted itself. A single, solid block of morning light was streaming through the open doorway — a threshold that once welcomed generations, now reduced to a conduit for dry leaves and the early sun. It struck the terracotta tiles with a warmth that felt entirely at odds with the peeling plaster surrounding it.
There is a distinct atmosphere in hallways like these. They were never meant to be destinations, only transitions. Yet, when left to themselves, they gather a heavy, enduring presence. It is the same quality of suspension found in the room that waited, where the pause feels permanent. These thresholds hold their breath, caught in what I have often thought of as the silence before the storm.
The blackbird did not call again. There was only the dust turning over in the shaft of light, and the quiet realisation that the house was no longer empty. It was simply occupied by time.
Threshold of Silence
Reference DU-337
Single edition — one print only
36 × 24 inches, Hahnemühle Photo Rag 308gsm
£950, with certificate of authenticity