The house was not haunted. Rather, it was hauntingly mysterious. Several generations had come and gone, each with its own web of relationships and stories, some more interconnected than others.
I remember the staircase, under which the children played. The abacus, the stuffed bear, the tattered box filled with other toys that had been passed down from my great-grandparents to my grandparents to the numerous aunts, uncles and parents that had drifted through that solid home.
In the summers, one could see streams of light shining through the windows upstairs, glittering with dust in the air. The laughter of children would fill each room, despite the defiant Pakistani heat and humidity. It would rain at night, and soon after, one could hear the bugs buzzing excitedly outside, as if they were trying to keep in tune with the crickets in the wet grass.
The dinner table would be a clutter…
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