Parking at the curb, she pulled the keys from the ignition and hopped out of the car. She crossed the cracked sidewalk and stood in front of the rusted wrought-iron gate. Her imagination supplied the soundtrack for the squeaky hinges. In high school, she had dared to push the supposedly locked entrance. When the gate swung inward at an odd angle, she’d quickly pulled the wrought-iron gate into its original position. Under the universal rule of break it and buy it, she hadn’t had the capital to pay for a repair or the property. Now I do.
Through the overgrown shrubs, she spied the dental trim under the eaves. Every inch of the property needed love, and she had plenty to spare. Folding her arms over her chest, she breathed deep. The overgrown lilacs released a frothy, delicate scent in the warm spring evening. She loved that smell. No matter how many perfumes or room sprays she purchased, she never found anything close to replicating the light but pervasive scent surrounding the mansion. She was home, where she was meant to be.
Rachelle Paige Campbell 