By the time I reached Aunt Anya’s neighborhood, the sun was higher in the sky, casting a warm glow over the streets. Her house stood at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, surrounded by a wild garden that looked more like a jungle than anything intentional.
I walked up the uneven stone path, dodging a few overgrown branches along the way.
As I knocked on the door, a muffled “Coming!” filtered through the thick wood. From behind the door, I could already hear the faint thump of music playing—something with a heavy bass that rattled the air slightly. Typical Aunt Anya. Never a dull moment in her house.
The door creaked open, and before I could even take a step inside, the strong scent of liquor and something else—probably stale smoke—hit me like a wall. I coughed lightly, trying not to look to
