The house she and her mother shared was small, so small it begged pardon for being there at all. Grayed siding held thin walls together and the windows held their breath, the cracked sidewalk below begging for their glass with a wrinkle and a wink.
But it was theirs.
And they filled it full.
Full of ghost stories they told each other on the longest nights of winter. Full of marmalade and toast, movie marathons, peppermint tea, and secrets. Full of music that hit the walls and ran down in sloppy, rich tones of gold. Full of tears and laughter that stitched their souls together.
