The house is hardly more than a ruin, but it’s all we could afford. I’m not proud of that, but between sky-rocketing property prices, our student loans and the rising cost of living, well. Five of us put all our savings together, and here I am, in the large attic room, still furnished and decorated for the child that once lived here.
I feel like an intruder, committing sacrilege just by being here, never mind by making this space my own. Slowly, I investigate my surroundings, disturbing the dusty scraps of someone else’s life.
A box of stars beneath the bed, the cheap, plastic ones you stick on the ceiling for a night light. Maybe I will stick up a couple, to honour my unknown predecessor. My parents never let me have them.
An opened pack of jawbreakers behind a book, presumably to hide them from the parents. Those go straight into the bin bag.
Lines, numbers and dates on the wall, landmarks celebrating growth, all the way up to 1.42m in July last year. Too creepy; I’ll paint or wallpaper over them once I can afford it.
A picture on the wall: An apple tree drawn like only a child could. Root, branch and tree all visible above the grass, fruit ripening red, psychedelic-yellow sun smiling down from a bright blue sky. It’s the bin bag for that one, too, although I feel a pang of guilt; the kid obviously liked the picture, or at least their parents did.
I make a mental note to ask Ash why the family moved out, why they left that stuff here. Then I scrap the idea. I don’t think I want to know.
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