The summer house smelled like salt and sunscreen, and something else she couldn’t quite remember.
She put her bags down onto the dusty floor and moved into the kitchen. It was the smell of aged wood, melting ice cream, and the summer mornings of a decade ago.
The glass jar sitting on the countertop was full of seashells. By its side was a handwritten message in a faded blue pen that said “Remember to water the plants, and remember to smile.” This was in her grandmother’s writing.
All of a sudden, the missing piece of the puzzle fell into place. The smell of home. It was the feeling of being nowhere else and doing nothing but watching the waves roll by.
And she smiled, pushed open the back door, and felt the sea breeze take care of the rest.