Last

She touched the staircase railing and it was warm; hesitating for a moment outside of closed doors, none felt wrong to open. She could see candlelight playing on the stained glass, hear music on the ground floor, feel the heat from the oven fill the kitchen as she checked on a shepherd's pie. "Well?" asked the realtor. "Definitely needs some TLC." But it didn't need that, in her opinion, as she peeked out into the garden; there were worse things in life than having too many flowers to tend. "It's perfect," she said. "Let's make an offer." The realtor was surprised, and she chuckled. "For a million reasons, I've fallen in love, you see - and I think the feelings are mutual. This is not my first house, but it's my last. It'll hold the remainder of my hopes and dreams, store my history in the attic, lift me up from the basement, and wait." "Wait?" asked the realtor, confused. "Wait for time to stop for me, because I am of an age where I might die here," she whispered, smiling. "I am not looking for investment property, I am buying a lobby to welcome the angels when they arrive - a jewelry box to hold me precious as I lie in state." It took a minute for the realtor to process the comments and another to successfully fight back tears.