One day, Elara asked, “Mom, why did Great-Grandma tear down that house? Why didn’t she just sell it?”
Emma looked out at the ocean, the wind catching her silvering hair. She thought of the rain, the cold marble of the porch, and the woman in the grey wool coat who had saved her.
“Because, sweetheart,” Emma said, taking her daughter’s hand. “Sometimes, you don’t sell the past. You don’t renovate it. You don’t try to paint over the cracks. You burn it down so you can plant flowers in the ash. And look,” she pointed to the vibrant garden surrounding them, “the flowers are beautiful today.”
The End.
