But here, where Mother insisted we spend the majority of our lives, muted daylight reflected back at me from the gleaming wooden surface of the table next to our chairs. Those were dark and shadowed and cold, the hidden past of this place buried under a thick coating of grime and disuse. A bit shabby, perhaps, but at least it was clean and bright, unlike so many of the other rooms I’d managed to sneak into. The “morning room” was one of the few in the enormous deserted citadel that was free of dust-that looked how I’d always imagined a normal home might look. Sunshine filtered through the gauzy curtains, as soft and warm as melted butter, its glow smoothing over the tattered edges of the well-worn but carefully tended furniture that my mother and I were perched on.
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