2

It only takes you a moment of pawing at the wall to find the light switch. You're a little surprised when the hallway illuminates the moment you flip it, the light bulb fizzing to life with little complaint even after more than ten years. But while the bulb may have aged well, the same can't be said for the rest of the house.

You look up and notice the paper on the walls is crumbling, peeling, spreading with damp; you turn to look along the hallway and see dust billowing up from the faded floorboards. You can only imagine that half of the house has been packed away in these boxes, left to fester in the dark—and knowing Grandma, you would probably have to unpack thirteen teapots before you found a box with anything useful in it. For now, you decide it's probably best not to disturb them.

The thought of unpacking reminds you to finally bring your bags in from the front step. As you head to pick them up you stop, just for a second, to take in what you can see of the rest of the twilit street. In front of you, an overgrown stretch of yard penned in by a low wall separates your grandma's house from the road and the few other houses scattered along it. To your right you see a single house, its windows dark—too far away to see much else except a few bright flowers growing in bushes. Over the road and to your left there's another house, this one a little bigger, with a yellow-painted door and more flowers growing up the walls.

You don't need to look hard to see your house is a little…neglected by comparison.

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