She presses her palm against the living room wall, feeling the uneven texture beneath her fingertips. The house is old. It speaks in creaks and groans. The windows rattle slightly when the wind passes.
She walks from room to room, noticing the imperfections—faint outlines where picture frames used to be, scratches on the wooden floors from chairs that were moved too hastily, a crack running through the ceiling like a forgotten road on a map.
She used to dream of a perfect space. White walls, clean lines, nothing out of place. But now, standing here, she wonders if perfection is just another word for emptiness.
The imperfections make the house feel more alive. More real.
She exhales. The house exhales with her.