Lilian stopped in front of the cottage, overwhelmed with emotion and an onslaught of memories. “I was just a child when we came to this cottage.” She looked at her granddaughter who had escorted her. “We only lived here… about five years, I think,” her voice cracked, “maybe seven, but I remember milking goats and picking flowers.” She gingerly stepped toward the garden. A rose bush was struggling to survive beneath a web of vines and grasses that had overtaken the space. Lilian waved her granddaughter away as she began to pick through the vines. “I see it in here.” She reached her hand deep within and yanked before pulling out a perfect peach-colored rose. “We used to pick these for Mama. She loved keeping a pitcher full on the kitchen table. Said they reminded her of her mama.” She set her nose against the delicate petals and inhaled. “Yep. That’s what the house smelled like all summer.”