For twenty-three years, it held the echo of my father’s voice reading poetry on Sunday mornings, the dent in the banister from my childhood scooter crash, the lilac bush he planted the day my mother left—its roots deep as grief.
And then there was Charlotte.
My sister. Thirty-five. A storm in human form—beautiful, sharp, always passing through.
She treated our home like a train station: suitcase by the door, keys in her pocket, heart locked in a vault she never let me see.
Dad and I? We were the quiet ones.
He taught me to wind his war-era pocket watch—the one with the dented face and cracked crystal—every Sunday at 4 p.m.
“Time isn’t just passing, Dawn,” he’d murmur, his thumb brushing the worn brass. “It’s waiting. For the right moment to be useful.”
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