Eighteen years

For most people, it was just a house. But for her, it was her most prized possession. It reflected her freedom and independence. It served as a haven away from the troubled world she always longed to escape.

She had poured her soul into every corner of that house to make it a home for her family. While she had never explicitly stated her favorite color, looking at the walls, you’d know that it was a combination of white and black.

She dealt with the world at her will. But mostly her life revolved around that house. Each wall in that house was her ally and every scratch on the furniture held a distinct memory. She was familiar with every crack and every discoloration. Those just made her cherish the place more because they spoke of her personal growth. They signified age.

She gave eighteen years of her life to those walls and tiles. Her closest allies, they never let her down. And for that, she was grateful.

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4 comments

  1. Vivek

    The best thing about your blog I feel is that all the posts can be read separately as unique stories *if I can call them that* and at the same time all of them can be molded into one awesome read. Cheers!

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