As Frida stepped into the house, a wave of nostalgia swept over her.
Though the house was far grander and more opulent than the one she remembered, the interior décor was almost identical to their old home. It was uncanny.
The familiar patterned rugs, the warm cream walls, even the faintly floral scent in the air, it all brought her back.
She could vividly recall playing with Laz in this very living room.
Memories of their laughter echoed faintly in her mind: the forts they built from couch cushions, the arguments when Laz messed with her dolls, and the quiet sniffles they shared when scolded for painting the walls with forbidden watercolors.
A small smile tugged at her lips, but her chest tightened.
It wasn't the same house, and yet Laurel, Laz's stepmother,had preserved those memories as if they were frozen in time.
The realization made Frida's heart swell, bittersweet and aching.
Her eyes misted with unshed tears, and she turned away, pulling herself together.
