She was a childish girl, say the stuffed animals on the floor, some old, some new.
A bookworm too, the books echo, piled on her desk and nightstand.
She was disorganized, the clothes whisper, strewn on the floor, wrinkled, dirty, mourning.
But not very social, say the blankets on her bed and the broken lock on the door.
“Nothing's left...she's gone.” They murmur, voices bouncing off the light green walls.

She had a brother, says the pair of boxers laying outside her door.
Always bundled up, the ceiling fan rasps, it's long, wooden arms coated in a layer of dust.
Always in her room, say the pillows on her bed, squished, worn and cold.
She was insane, said the demons in her head, cackling, taunting, never escaped.
“Nothing's left! She's gone!” They screeched, room rumbling, lamp falling over, insane laughter filled the air.

“NoThInGs LeFt! ShE’s GoNe!”