Even with my eyes closed, I can see everything perfectly. I picture the bright blue walls surrounding me, marked with the occasional scribble and stain from my childhood years that no one has ever bothered to paint over. To my left is a giant TV screen, and to my right is the family-sized sofa I end up using as my bed. There's a cool draft coming in from the windows with broken hinges.

With each step in the pre-dawn darkness, I walk through the lonely spaces of the house. My hands run over the familiar objects -- the staircase rail, the broken doorknob, a picture frame. I squint at the picture. It's so different. From how it's always been, I mean. The memory captured in the photo doesn't resemble what I remember--

I draw in a sharp breath.

The sound is like a gunshot, lodged in the fabric of silence. The house is awake now, and I can feel the walls and roof waiting, curious why its resident has disturbed its slumber.

"We used to be happy," I whisper to the house. That's right. There used to be something before this, before the house was so peaceful it was dead. I close my eyes and imagine the laughter, the people, the love that used to fill the space with light.

We used to be a home.