You revisit the perfectly preserved house of your childhood . Not a chair has been moved or a table disturbed . But something is wrong ...

My fingers trailed across the wall as I walked in, like characters often did in movies. Every little bump, scratch, and hole was accounted for. In the kitchen the dishes were stacked in the sink, still covered with soapy water. I hesitated for a moment before grabbing a rag. 
 
 
 As I worked I stared blankly out the window. The yard was covered in a foot of snow. There were paw prints, though try as I might I could not find the animal that made them. They led to the backyard, by the pumpkin patch. 
 
 The dishes were clean the next time I looked down, ending my fruitless search for the dog. I turned and walked into the dining room. No dishes on the table, but the chairs were in disarray as if recently vacated. I continued into the living room. 
 
 The tv was on, playing an old rerun of a cartoon I had long forgotten the name of. I continued on through the hall and up the stairs. My parent ’ s bedroom door was open. Their bed was neat as always and the ancient computer hummed in complaint. No programs were running, so I let it be. 
 
 I bypassed my brother ’ s closed door and went straight to the room I once shared with my sister. Toys littered the floor and a pile of books formed a dollhouse. I stepped carefully over them and looked at my bed. It was decorated with an obscene amount of horses, from the blankets down to the stuffed animals. 
 
 But my bed was not the reason I was here. I forced myself to turn around. Pink, pink, and more pink filled my vision. Stuffed rabbits, cats, dogs, birds, and everything else imaginable lined the side closest to the wall. I crawled onto the bed, taking a deep breath. The smell was the same. 
 
 I lay down and curled around her favorite stuffed pig. I buried my face into its soft fur. 
 
 No matter how many times my dreams took me here I could never bring her back. 

