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One frosty morning last week I tentatively tiptoed up the icy path to a half-open front door. I gently tapped the wood with my knuckle and then turned the handle with my glove-covered hand. I called out the very first, “Hello?” and the house replied with a sun-filled silence. Empty; just the bare walls fluttering with sunny shadows and the sound of my boots on the boards.

 

Even though the rooms are bare – except for a few paint pots and a ladder – they’re cluttered with promises and plans. I touch every wall, open every door and peer out of every window. 

Our walls, our doors, our windows. Ours. Soon.

The garden’s just a muddy pen for now, but soon we’ll plant flowers.

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