In her long life, Violet Baudelaire has hundreds of houses, but only nine homes. Of course, nine might seem like a really big number, but they weren't, in fact, buildings- but some people.
Her houses were simply places she went to sleep in- houses of her relatives and other strange places she lived, first with her siblings, then with Beatrice and- finally- all by herself. When she turned eighteen and get her family money, the first thing she has done was buying a flat. Then, she changed her surname to Brown and stared normal life, for which she longed for so long- university studies, inventions made for fun, not for saving life and being independent, choosing what she wants to do and doing it. But she was all alone all the time, she never made any friends or went out with anybody, she never went to dates and though she finished college with distinction and eventually become very famous and honored women, she grow old without anybody by her side. She did a lot of great things in her life, she helped many orphans by her foundation and invented amazing things which changed life of whole civilization and she was remembered as one of the most genial minds of her age. When she became old woman with a web of wrinkles covering her still pretty face, she stopped going out and lecturing, although some of her former students still visited her sometimes. She focused on small things instead of the big ones. Little robots. Tiny cameras. Mini-mechanisms. And her home.
Her home was a dollhouse, identical replica of Baudelairs Manor. There were tiny furniture in it, tiny books on bookshelves in library, tiny cutlery in the kitchen, electric light and working radio. She spent days working on it, until it was absolutely perfect and then she just sat on the floor by it, feeling it with life in her imagination, imagination, which made her such an extraordinary inventor. She imagined Clause in the library, curled with a book, Sunny in the kitchen, cooking them dinner, mum playing piano, dad reading a newspaper, Beatrice playing on the attic, Isadora writing poems, Duncan and Quigley talking and laughing together, uncle Mongomery playing with snakes. Sometimes she realized that she was crying while thinking about all these people who she loved, who she cared of, who she lost. Yes, they were all dead and lost, but she could, she just could- she needed to- pretend, betray herself that they were her, in this dollhouse safe and sound. And that she was with them too, living a life that she should have lived and would have lived if word was fair and love meant that nobody dies.
When she wasn't looking at the house, she was working on its residents. Her loved ones captured in tiny metal dolls' bodies, one by one, until she was stated that they look exactly how they should have looked like. That was moments when she wasn't thinking about anything or memorizing her past and she loved it, loved being free from her pain by both her work and imagination.
But Violet always eventually had to get up from floor and out of her workshop, wipe out her tears and go to sleep in her cold, too big bed- lonely, lonely from the day her siblings and Beatrice drowned in the sea.
One day, when her students came to visit her, they found her lying on the floor with a beautiful, gleaming smile on her face. Right beside her there was a dollhouse in which were ten tiny, terrifyingly realistic dolls sitting in a living room. The tenth one was their professor herself- young and beautiful, rounded by the other, holding hands with two identical boys, with two small girls and young boy with glasses by her side.
Violet was finally home.