The smell—musty and sour—crept under the door

The smell—musty and sour—crept under the door

before I even saw the stain.

Black-green splotches curl beneath chipped white paint,

sentences of rot written in silence.

It breathes there,

slow, patient,

a quiet invasion nobody bothered to stop.

I scrub at the edges,

fingers catching on rough skin and flaking dreams.

The damp pulls at walls like a secret,

growing where light has given up,

and hope slips with it,

slow and wet,

like something waiting to claim me too.

Mildew doesn’t scream.

It waits.

It spreads.