The windows in her house are less than three years old, yet the pair in her bedroom let in a draft so large it sweeps her Juul rings up to the bedroom ceiling. Banjo, her faithful hound, follows the almost-invisible trail of vapor with his head; if she didn’t know better, she’d think he saw a ghost.

Perhaps he did.

Ever since she’d bought the house in the picturesque little mountain town of Hudson, NY, she’d felt a tingling sense that it was still occupied by the former owner, who passed away a year prior. She didn’t know much about him, but neighbors had reluctantly offered up small bits of information over the years, when she was feeling social enough to lightly press. He “wasn’t well.” He was “a recluse. A classic hoarder.” His kids – now adults with families of their own – had to hire a trash removal company to clear out the debris of the old man’s life just to list it on the market – as is – before accepting the first lowball offer they received from a savvy local developer.

When she first toured the house, she wasn’t particularly impressed with the exterior. It was hauntingly close to a replica of her childhood home –  a raised ranch built in the 1980s with vinyl white siding. It wasn’t exciting, but it did come with a level of familiarity; of comfort. She knew what to expect inside.

A pair of gratuitous gray columns flanked the front door, which was painted a vivid, unique shade of blue – darker than Robin’s Egg but softer than Cobalt. The color was lively, and thus out of place, but she enjoyed the surprising pop against the otherwise clinical, safe sea of white.

While the exterior of the house was unimpressive, inside, all was fresh and new. The crisp scent of plywood commingling with paint – again, all bright white – and she inhaled as she took in the sight of brand-new stainless-steel appliances that lined the kitchen walls.  The mix of copper and brass light fixtures throughout the living and dining spaces were modern and sleek; a contrast to the view from the lawn.  

Though the four bedrooms were small, they each boasted at least one closet – something she’d dreamt of in Brooklyn. Both levels of the house – the main floor and the basement – were overlaid with parquet flooring in mixed hues of bold and faint gray.

It was new. It was clean. It was hers. 

This is a little piece from my most recent writing class assignment. It feels so good to be writing again! Try it yourself: Title your piece “The Window.” It’s up to you whether this is a figurative or literal window. Lean in on descriptions using multiple senses.