The house wasn’t the same to her any more. Once, sunlight had danced across the wooden floors, and laughter had rippled through the high-ceilinged rooms. Now, shadows lingered in the corners, and every footstep echoed in uneasy silence.
Mara traced her hand along the hallway wall, feeling the faint indentations where she and her sister used to mark their heights. The pencil lines had faded, but the memory lingered like a ghost—a remnant of lives lived in bright, busy days. The living room, once cluttered with cheerful chaos, now held only the hush of absence.
She paused at the window, peering into the overgrown garden. Briars had conquered the flowerbeds, and the swing her father built hung still, its ropes frayed with time. Every detail whispered change: the chipped paint on the banister, the faint scent of dust, the missing warmth in the air.
Mara wandered upstairs. Her mother’s room, once forbidden and mysterious, stood open and empty. She stepped inside, half-expecting to hear the rustle of fabric or the soft clatter of jewelry in a box. Instead, she found only silence and dust motes swirling in the pale light. The wardrobe door hung ajar, revealing nothing but forgotten hangers.
In the attic, boxes waited patiently, stacked and sealed with brittle tape. Mara knelt and opened one, the cardboard creaking beneath her hands. Old photographs stared up at her: birthdays, holidays, candid moments frozen in time. She smiled at one—a family picnic, her parents looking impossibly young and happy.
As the afternoon faded, Mara sat on the staircase and listened to the settling house. She realized that a home is more than walls and memories—it breathes with the people who fill it. Now, with her family gone, it felt hollow, waiting to be reborn or gently let go.
But as she stood to leave, Mara paused. The house wasn’t the same to her any more, yet in its silent echoes, there was still love—quiet, enduring, waiting to be remembered.
Therapy Bits 
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