I had been away at the seaside for ten days, and the house felt different the moment I stepped back inside. Not in any obvious way—nothing was out of place, nothing was broken—but there’s a particular silence a home takes on when it has been left alone for long enough.
Dust settles differently. Light feels slightly unfamiliar. Even the air seems to hesitate.
I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and moved through the rooms on autopilot, opening windows, letting the stale air shift and change. It wasn’t until I reached the bathroom that I stopped.
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