The walls are completely white. No pictures showing my sister and me as small children, playing in a swimming pool or riding on a colorful little trail.

The floor has been freshly put down, a gleaming parquet with no dents or scratches from pushing that old piano through the living room or accidentally dropping a log in front of the fireplace.

The rooms are completely empty and my steps echo as I look around. There is no couch to unpack our Christmas gifts for each other or clink our glasses together to celebrate New Year’s. No table cluttered with magazines and pencils, no forgotten crisps and chocolate hidden in the secret drawer beneath.

In the corner there is no bookshelf. No stack of crime novels on the floor because there was no more room on the shelf, between all of the pages and small stones, pictures and souvenirs from various vacations. In this room, there is nothing.

But there will be.