The final close of the warm wood door.

I carry memories of rooms filled with life, and some devoid. The day the hired cleaners came through, the place lost everything it had been, swept clean of recognition and safety. The sickly-fresh smell of cleansing chemicals were cold.

May that be all that I can recall? Or will I know more, finding the key to the lock of the cavern of knowledge?

My thoughts still rely on my sanctuary, my muscle-memory cannot forget the ways things once were.

The new place—this manor— feels nothing as it should. I knew and know that it can never be my home. Not like the cottage.