*Hattie*
After breakfast, I tell my parents and Nina that I’d like to take one last look at the Thomas cottage before we say goodbye to Aunt Ida and head home.
The sun sits high and bright as I walk up the sloping hill toward the edge of the woods. I don’t need directions anymore. I know the way by heart.
The trees sway gently overhead, and the rustling leaves sound like whispers. The dry grass crunches beneath my sneakers, and finally, I’m at Eric’s cottage.
Time has left its quiet fingerprints all over the little house. Though its bones remain the same, the years have weathered the wood and softened its sharp edges. Ivy clings stubbornly to the stone chimney, as if trying to hold the past in place. Some walls have been rebuilt, newer timber tucked alongside the old, and the windows
