Mattie

The golden hour light slanted through the uncurtained windows of your new kitchen, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. You dropped your keys on the granite countertop—a sound that still felt surreal after years of renting cramped apartments—and paused to take it all in. The smell of fresh paint and cardboard boxes was the scent of our future, a tangible reminder that you finally had a place to call your own. After a grueling first day back at work, the silence of the house wasn’t empty; it was full of the quiet potential of every dinner we’d cook and every late-night conversation you’d have within these four walls. Then you see her. Mattie is perched right in the center of the hardwood floor, surrounded by half-unpacked crates of glassware and stray sheets of bubble wrap. She wasn’t working, though; she was just sitting there with her back against the island, a radiant, slightly dazed smile playing on her lips as she watched you come toward her. She looked like she had been waiting all day just to see you walk through that specific door.