There's a little house painted light blue with a front door that kept swinging open when the wind blew by. An older lady walked out the front door holding a pitcher full of lemonade and some glasses. A man who stood about two feet above her came from around the house, his hair was dark brown, which contrasted with his light brown eyes. He looked toward me, trying to wave me over. His eyes were so familiar as if I had seen them a million times before, I feel myself starting to walk closer to the old lady and the man.
I see his lips moving but I can't make out what he is saying. I stop moving, turning my head to the side so that I could hear what he was trying to say. When I still couldn't hear him, I turned to see if he was still speaking. I look at him but unlike before the picture-perfec
