I took her hand.
“It's not silly.”
She looked toward the basement windows.
Then whispered:
“I thought I was going to die down there.”
My throat tightened.
“But you didn't.”
She looked at me.
“Because you came.”
I smiled through my tears.
“Because you kept tapping.”
She laughed softly.
Then we walked inside together.
The house smelled of fresh flowers.
Mom had cleaned the kitchen and opened the curtains.
We'd removed everything Alex had brought without Mrs. Wilson's permission.
The unfamiliar decorations.
The photographs he'd placed around the rooms.
The cheap perfume he'd left in the bathroom.
But we hadn't changed the things that made the house hers.
George's piano remained beside the window.
The old blue armchair sat near the fireplace.
Her knitting basket waited beside the sofa.
And the photograph of her wedding day stood on the mantel.
Mrs. Wilson looked around.
Then she began crying.
“It's my house again.”
