23
Waking up in my childhood bedroom felt... weird. I had left Crow Hill four years ago, and only came back a couple of times. The week-long train ride was too long for many visits. The room was the same, untouched by time. The bed was still too short for me. The drapes on the windows, through which the sunlight came in, were the same dull, black, faded color. The air was fresh, and the bed linen smelled of sunshine and a bit of bleach; mother had probably aired the room and changed the sheets as soon as she heard I was coming.
I sat, drinking the glass of water mother had thoughtfully left on the bedside table. The room was quite warm, I noticed as the blanket slid down. The ambers in the fireplaces showed father had made a fire the night before. I opened the drapes; the sun was quite h
