She was holding the key so tightly in her hands, you would be surprised it didn’t cut her. Her hands were wrinkled and reflected an age much older than the number of years she journeyed this earth; her nails, perfectly manicured so as to not betray what she did for a living when she wasn’t at work. When she opened the door, she could feel the thickness of the dust and the mold but relished in them as they were all hers. There were still artifacts from previous owners-a few lamps, armchairs and a dusty black book engraved in gold with the name Soraya. If she were superstitious, it would be easy for her to believe her ancestors bequeathed this home to her.