The house looked familiar and reassuring. It was six years since Aimee had last been here, and yet it looked exactly the same as when she used to stop by to see grandma right after grandad died. When she was fourteen. And then less often though highschool.
It was a blue Victorian, set back from the street. There was a tall birch in the front yard, and a bench on the front porch. Reaching back to memories, before grandad got sick, she remembered them sitting on that bench on Sundays, reading.
She remembered it so hard that she could almost see it: both of them sitting there, smiling at her as she approached.
When she was very little grandma’s house had meant cookies, and malted milk, and being indulged in a way her parents would never do.
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