old wood and the lavender sachets I keep in the drawers. Something sweet and expensive. A candle, maybe. Or a perfume.
The second thing I noticed was the suitcases.
Four of them, lined up in the front hall. Matching. Cream-colored leather with gold initials stamped on the side. B.A. Blythe Ashford.
Behind them were six moving boxes, neatly taped and labeled with a black marker in tidy, rounded handwriting. Master Closet. Bathroom. Kitchen — Fragile. Books.
I walked through the living room.
My afghan, the yellow one my mother crocheted,
