Violet can see why kids in the area steer clear of it now though. It looks dead, eaten from the inside out. Grass and weeds run rampant, like a jungle in the front yard. The house itself, once painted a cheery soft yellow, now is littered with chipped paint. The shutters squeak in the slight breeze, one barely hanging onto the shattered window. Ivy climbs up the side of the house and cracks run through the concrete steps where the house has shifted over time and where roots and grass have sprouted under and between cracks in the driveway.

It’s almost like all of nature is conspiring to engulf the place. Clean up the mess. Erase the memory.

It fits, Violet supposes. Maybe she really is the only one clinging to this place.

Violet pushes her hands into her pockets and tips her chin up, resuming her pace as she rounds the remains of the chipped white fence. Her boots clomp against the pavement as she moves down the driveway and walks up the steps. Her trench coat swishes behind her.

At the front door, she pauses, hand on the knob. She closes her eyes, fingers squeezing into the tarnished brass. And then she opens the door.

.

.

.