She hasn’t been in this house for years. Nobody has, and it shows. Historic hallways with floors creaking as she takes slow steps, leading to rooms with a foreign weight of age. Dusty light bulbs still screwed in, but zapped out for the rest of the night, and every night after that.

But there’s this soft glow:

From the stale bedroom. A lamp given as a gift, aging into ten. Still working. Nearby, the couch has freshly washed sheets thrown on and a woman sitting there now, waiting. She smiles at the woman, knowing ten years still isn’t too late.