Beginnings. Built upon the ruins of its previous foundation, the guidelines were set. The house was different but its warmth felt the same. The fireplace in the center, burning, a soft orange glow. A birch door swinging open and closed bringing in the scent of fresh flowers and baked goods. Tall windows peeled back to let the morning doves’ song caress the walls, singing nothing but sweet praises. Passion. The dry season approached. A groan now sounded throughout the house, aching. The fireplace was unlit, but the warmth spread; hot and burning. Through the door came smoke, and ash. The morning doves’ song, now a lamentation. Freedom. Debris lies in piles, scattered. The foundation now charred and split in two. But a breeze now blew without walls, windows, or doors to restrict its flow. Shades of green now peppered the remains and a new song filled the fresh air. A feather drifted toward a new path with more space for a foundation. The smell of smoke, now a memory and a lesson.