Charlotte sat silently on the old chair, holding the hot mug of tea tightly in her hands. The old chair, the old house, all of it slicing deep little wounds that bled memory.
Even the tea was reminiscent of another time. She surprised herself at how well she maintained her calm being in her childhood home, especially given how much she had avoided being here all these years.
Every last detail spoke to her, told her some memory that could never be forgotten even if she pushed it so far down as to not be easily remembered. She did a good job, at least staying on the bottom floor of the two story house, of keeping every painful emotion in check. She had a mission here, after all, and so she had to do her best to keep the focus.
But that left the top story off limits. She couldn’t bring herself to see anything upstairs. Not her room, not her mother’s room, not the upstairs bathroom, or even the guest bedroom. Even the stairs themselves. Actually, the stairs, in particular were too painful for her to see, for that was the last place she saw her mother before her mother’s death.
A difficult task, avoiding even so much as looking at the stairs, especially since they were directly to her left as she sat in the old armchair, but she managed it, for even the slightest thought of that last moment with her mother was almost too much for her to handle.