Each step felt like a physical effort, my knees weak from the stress of the day.

The noise from downstairs seemed to follow me, a chaotic mix of television static, the toddler’s shouting, and Rylan’s deep, mocking laughter.

As I reached the second-floor landing, the air felt slightly cooler.

The hallway was dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside the window at the far end.

I looked down the corridor.

My grandmother’s sewing room sat at the very end of the hall.

It was my only sanctuary left.

I had locked it immediately after her funeral, wanting to preserve the smell of her lavender sachet, the neat stacks of vintage fabrics, and her antique iron sewing machine.

I kept the brass key on my personal keychain at all times.

I needed to sit in that quiet room, surrounded by her things, just to remind myself of who I was.

I walked down the hallway, my soft-soled nursing shoes making no sound on the wooden floorboards.

As I drew closer to the door, a faint shaft of light appeared under the crack.