Megan smiled at the familiar sound of her parents' bickering, shaking her head in fond exasperation. Their love had always been noisy and relentless — woven into the creaks of the old floorboards, into the smoke curling up from the hearth. It wrapped around her like a well-worn quilt, comforting even in its loudest form.
"I'll just grab the eggs," she said, her voice light as she walked past them. Behind her, her parents' voices blurred into one another, a gentle, ongoing rhythm of affection and debate.
The wooden door to her old room groaned slightly on its hinges as she pushed it open. The air inside was still, touched with the earthy scent of old wood, hay, and time. The room hadn't been slept in for months —dust clung to the windowsill, and the linen-draped bed sagged slightly from age. The walls were plain, no much decorations, just the worn texture of timber and a faint chalk scribble from her childhood still lingering on the far wall.
