It’s a normal house, on a normal street, in a normal city. The daffodils bloom on the front lawn, although beaten down by the rain. The red of the bricks is beginning to fade, now a dull brown. The color of dirt on a warm day.

There’s a difference between a house and a home, but not too many people know that. The difference between the girl who walks home to a mother waiting for her, and the one who has to unlock the door.

She pulls the key from her backpack, twisting it in the lock until it opens. She’s the only girl in her second-grade class with her own house key, and she’s very proud of this fact.

The house is still and empty, except for the sound of the TV that’s been left on and is blaring the news to absolutely no one. She stands resolute at the edge of the kitchen, looking, but not going in. She runs her fingers along the doorframe before taking off her shoes and going up the stairs, careful not to leave a trace.