It was my old neighborhood, my old old neighborhood, back when my mom was still...
I stroll through my old neighborhood, just walking and letting memories drift up. It's weird seeing how much has changed and how much hasn't. Some places are unrecognizable now, replaced with slick condos or convenience stores. But then, as I turn a corner, I spot a house that nearly makes me choke on a laugh.
"Oh my god, it's still here?"
There it is, sitting quietly at the end of the street like a memory frozen in time. It's nothing grand compared to the mansions and castles I've been touring—just a stone house with ivy creeping up the sides, yellow daisies scattered across the little front yard, and a tree that spreads its branches wide and high. The tree's branches are covered with these strange white blossoms that glow in the sun, looking almost like tiny moons hanging in the air.
I walk closer, remembering all those mornings when my mom would take me to school, and she'd slow down to glance at this house. She thought I didn't notice, but I did. She never outright said it, but I could tell this was her dream house. Not a mansion or a glass fortress or a castle with chandeliers—just this cozy place, the kind that looks like it belongs in a storybook. A cottage with charm, character, and just a little magic to it.
It's a place that's lived in. The kind where you can see someone sitting on the front steps with a coffee in the morning, or kids running around in the yard. It's like the house itself has a soul, something I didn't feel in any of those grand places I just saw. It's all cottage-core warmth, with wild vines and a few worn spots where the stone is cracked, giving it even more charm.
I can practically see my mom's smile, imagining her living here, surrounded by the daisies and the big tree that wraps around the yard like a protective arm. The idea of buying it for her, for us, just lingers in my mind, like a spark waiting to catch fire.
I make the decision before I even realize it. I've got the number from the real estate sign at the edge of the lawn, and after a quick call, I'm walking through the front door, keys practically burning a hole in my hand.
The place smells faintly of old wood and something floral, like lavender. The floors are worn hardwood, creaky in spots, but solid. There's a narrow staircase right near the entrance, curving up to the second floor, and a cozy little living room off to the left. It's got this old brick fireplace with a mantle that's barely tall enough to hold a picture frame, and somehow it's perfect.
I wander further in, brushing my fingers along the wall as I go. The kitchen is tiny by modern standards—no marble countertops or sleek, stainless-steel appliances. Instead, there's this old farmhouse sink and sturdy, wooden counters with years of use etched into their surfaces. The cabinets are painted a faded blue, and there's a little nook in the corner with a window looking out onto the tree in the yard.
And that's the thing: every window I pass shows me that massive tree. It's like the house was built around it on purpose, framing it as though the tree's a piece of art, or maybe even a part of the family.
I head upstairs, trailing my fingers along the banister. There are two bedrooms up here—small, but with high, sloping ceilings that make them feel like cozy little hideaways. The walls are painted warm, earthy tones, and the windows let in these soft, diffused beams of light that make everything glow.
One room has a little balcony that overlooks the backyard and that big, old tree. I imagine my mom standing out there, maybe with a mug of tea, looking down at the daisies in the garden.
I take a deep breath and sit down on the edge of the old wooden bedframe in the main bedroom, still letting it sink in. This place, this little stone house with the creaky floors and the ivy-covered walls—it's mine.