She was determined to bring everything into the maison in a single trip, so she shouldered the door in. She lugged a suitcase, both her hands were occupied in a death defying balancing act of groceries and art supplies.

The air had a heaviness to it, stale from a lack of lungs circulating it. It was her late father’s summer home (a secret getaway he used to prefer for extramarital trysts while she and her mother idled in their city walk up.) Now, it was hers. Not that she had ever taken advantage of it before- she had a good job in the city and a busy social life, complete with a long term partner.

Had* is the key word there. She left him the prior weekend and quit her job. Now, the world was so wide open, too wide open; it made her want to retreat here and shutter the windows. She could dig into herself here, she could purge heavy sobs from herself here. Maybe she could even connect with her long suppressed creative side here? Thats why she brought the pastels and charcoals.

Sighing, she placed all of her affects on the long oak table. There was dust, but she had cleaning supplies and all the time to clean the place up. The egg shell white of the walls seemed tepid, the fixtures rusty.

This wouldn’t be a holiday so much as an awakening, or so she hoped. Previous to this week she had herself fooled that she was happy, on the right life path. Why had she gone on so long deluding herself? The only thing left to do now was follow the breadcrumbs back to herself.

She would paint, rebrand, rebuild.