THE FIRST HOUSE

The walls whispered like they remembered her.

The windows were high, spilling light from every direction.

The rooms were small but welcoming, like an old friend she hadn’t seen in years.

The walls were bare, yet the space glowed—sunlight shifting across the floor as if the house itself were whispering.

Each hallway offered a discovery.

Hidden doorways leading nowhere.

A staircase ending at a window that framed the valley like a forgotten painting.

Bedrooms with half-height walls, beds tucked into corners as if meant for secrets. A bathtub balanced on a ledge without a rail.

And a glass room that cantilevered over the cliff—the kind of risk only beauty could justify.

It stole her breath.
Her first memory.
Her first love.
She was five.