Maybe it was the lack of the sound of pans banging around downstairs that sent me back to when I was seven. The silence was louder than anything.

The carpeted stairs I used to slide down, wincing at every sound that was made so early in the morning, were gone, replaced with new, wooden ones. The news that once was a low hum on the TV, was silent. The walls were painted an off-white, despite the fact that every room was once painted a different color of the rainbow.

Everything I once recognized was gone, replaced with modern touches in an effort to sell the house more quickly.

My fingertips grazed the doorknob. I was merely a ghost in the present, my thoughts stuck on the past.