The colorful mugs in my grandparents’ summer house, piled into the wooden drawer with little circles of dust underneath, waiting for us to return the following summer.

The beach umbrella I insisted on opening myself, only to eventually let my parents do it while I stood underneath its shadow, overlooking the sea.

Old paper calendars from my grandparents’ house, sometimes dated years before, became little pieces of time I couldn’t help collecting and keeping for later.

The window at my grandparents’ house gave me a view of everything below — the street, the beach, the day ahead and the feeling of complete freedom to imagine what came next.

I used to draw my dream house with the sun setting at the edge of the page, always making sure it had green grass underneath, as if I already knew exactly where I wanted to belong.