Walk with me. Watch the wind blow every so softly so it shifts the strand of hair across your eyes, urging you to move it away before it spirals into an itchy feeling. Hear the mellow buzzing of the refrigerator, a reminder that the power has not been switched off and the current flows through the plugged in wires. Glance across the room and take in the frame of the front window that allows in ever so little light to illuminate the small living room. The cuckoo clock, on its final leg of batteries, weakly whispering the time through the frequency of sounds it lets out in the next minute. There is density in the air in this packed house. The toys on the shelves have taken it upon themselves to entertain you, as they make eye contact and resist the need to be counted on a Sunday morning of mandated chores. The piece of paper with an outline of the toy shelf, with numbers across to keep track of, the cars almost one hundred and the dolls in dozens. The balcony where you once slit your wrists with a broken bangle, the remnant pieces on the tiny ledge built to catch any rainwater, or pieces of a teenage breakdown. The tucked away room in the back of the bedroom, memory ceases in detail of whether it was for storage or other usage, holding a stronger smell of mildew hanging in the air. The trifecta grand cupboard, built within the confines of the previous house, lined in equal measure with shelves for the three inhabitants who wrangle with grief and a desperate sense of homeliness. The clothes piled in some, stuffed in others, passed on from the years, bought in bundles from another land. The bedsheets are as old as the youngest child, folded at a height that neither of them can easily reach just yet. A tiny house in a tiny street in a bigger world from the past.