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Weekly Contest #315
When Mara pushed open her grandmother’s front door, it didn’t swing—it sighed. The wood was swollen from years of salt air, stubborn as memory. She leaned her shoulder against it until it gave, then stepped inside, leaving her suitcase by the stairs like an afterthought. The air was the same as she remembered: tide, lemon oil, and the faint whisper of rosemary. Summer afternoons and childhood laughter clung to it, even though the house had been empty for over a year. Or not empty—just without a person. The bay window framed the gray horizon....
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