She remembers the smell of that house. That cozy, enchanting little house. She remembers the way it felt and smelled and looked. She remembers how every week she looked forward to the weekend when she could go back to that house and sit in simple serenity and escape from all troubles. She remembers them too: her grandparents. They always fought over stupid little things like his medicine or lotto tickets or something. They never publicly showed their affection for each other, but it was cute how you could still tell that they loved. You could see it in their eyes. She loved taking care of him. Why? I think mainly because she loved him and she loved the way he needed her.
After that day - after that long, draining, blury day, that house was never the same. She couldn't go in anymore. Nothing and no one could get her to. But she finally mustered up the courage to go in one day. It was so different. The smell was still there, yes. But it was different. The house had no more life. No more serenity. No more love. And yet at the same time, it still did. All those emotions - serenity, peace, love, happiness - they all threw themselves at her at once. She couldn't go passed the front room. She tried several times, and several trips to look down that hall towards his room. But she couldn't. Yes, it hurt. But she was scared. Of what? I can't even tell you that because she still doesn't know. All she knows is that that house will never be the same. Her family will never be the same. She will never be the same.
That house is long gone now. Cleared out and emptied. All of its memories boxed up and dragged to a new home. It's filled with a new family now. It's beginning its own new traditions and memories. But she still remembers it. Just the way it was when it was filled with her family and their traditions. All of its memories still live on. They'll never die. And neither will he.