No one had lived in the house for nearly one hundred years when she bought it. It had stood silent as it crossed from one millennium to the next.
And yet the sounds from the stories that filled it followed her from room to room.
The emerald hairpin tucked beneath a skirting board, winking in the sunlight, whispering of past elegance.
The graffiti behind the bathroom tiles, a murmured love note entombed.
The scratches in the doorframe, marking the passing of years, scars from childhood to adulthood.
A house full of ghosts, memories dancing like dust motes in the air.
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