Somewhere in a small Portuguese village, hidden among dense trees and overgrown brush, stands a decaying little house, barely noticeable in the landscape. The roof has partially collapsed, a section of the wall has crumbled, and ivy creeps through broken windows. Nature is slowly reclaiming what was once a home.

Inside, a quiet melancholy fills the air. The furniture remains untouched, the table still set as if the owner might return at any moment. Faded photographs hang crooked on the walls, yellowed by time. In the bedroom, clothes are neatly folded in the wardrobe, and a pair of glasses rests on the nightstand beside a half-read book.

Everything suggests the former resident left suddenly or perhaps never returned at all. Nothing was taken, as if life here stopped without warning. The house now stands as a silent time capsule, a witness to a solitary yet meaningful existence, slowly fading into the forgotten corners of the forest.