They keep telling me that the old lady died.
It happened in our new living room.
The electric bar fire met with the sofa as she slept.
It's a sad story, but an important one - my children's ears prick up each time.
The doorhandles are all brand new because they bubbled, held on to the smell.
But I do not need to hear about the past.
The living room is full of our boxes, a small bike, the box marked 'KETTLE AND TEABAGS!' - somewhere.
The children buzz about upstairs, excited by newfound cupboards, nails left in walls, the view from the bathroom.
Neighbours queue up more stories outside, with homemade cakes.
I begin to unpack.
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