Behind closed curtains

The silence strikes me. No engines running, no children playing. A window wide open but no one in sight. Only traces of humans: a swing squeaking in the wind, a fluttering flag, the sharp smell of freshly cut grass filling my nose. Stale garden furniture tells the story of winters passed. One flower-patterned pillow carefully placed on an outdoor chair. A sculpture of two smiling frogs and a birdhouse in a flower bed without flowers. A crack in the curtain gives me a glance of a dark living room. Every home tells a story. The ones we see, and the ones we imagine. Now that millions of people are locked in their houses, I am more curious than ever; what goes on behind closed curtains?