barstools lining one side. Grandpa and I used to sit there and watch Nana cook, enjoying her humming to herself as she whipped up delicious meals. Shaking away the memories, I rush over to a tall lamp by the rocking chair and flick on the light. I release a sigh of relief when a buttery soft glow emits from the bulb. A few days ago, I had called to get the utilities turned on in my name, but you can never be too sure when dealing with an old house. Then I walk over to the thermostat, the number causing another shiver to wrack my body. Sixty-two goddamn degrees. I press my thumb into the up arrow and don’t stop until the temperature is set to seventy-four. I don’t mind cooler temperatures, but I’d prefer it if my nipples didn’t cut through all of my clothing. I turn back around and face a home that’s both old and new—a home that’s housed my heart since I could remember, even if my body left for a little while. And then I smile, basking in the gothic glory of Parsons Manor. It’s how my great-grandparents decorated the house, and the taste has passed down through the generations. Nana used to say that she liked it best when she was the brightest thing in the room. Despite that, she still had old people’s taste. I mean, really, why do those white throw pillows have a border of lace around them and a weird, embroidered bouquet of flowers in the middle? That’s not cute. That’s ugly. I sigh. “Well, Nana, I came back. Just like you wanted,” I whisper to the dead air.