She put they key on a chain. She wore it under her clothes at all times, even when she slept.
At night, while her parents slept in fitful drugged paralysis, Lydia crept up the attic steps, so quiet she could have been the wind, the wood of a settling house, even the feathery footfalls of a ghost.
But there were no ghosts in the attic. By all means, there should have been, but no one chilled the air or threw anything at her as she poked around the lives they'd left behind, armed with only a flashlight.
She tackled the book page by page, reading each paragraph over and over until she unwound the obfuscating language in her head. After a few weeks, she guessed they were in the Otherworld, where time had little material value.
She was far more interested in the model, though. She would choose a tiny house to illuminate under her solitary beam, and marvel at its intricacy, the craftsmanship and the care that went into the replica.
She wondered what kind of people would make such a thing. She puzzled over each detail of the attic: the calypso records, the half-done wallpaper job, the little pots of paint and the sketches of trees.
She felt less alone, knowing someone else had been here too, but found beauty. When she biked through town, she recognized places from the model, the houses at the corners of streets. This town had been loved, and she yearned for an understanding of that love, and what it meant.
They'd be back… They left the book. They had to come back. She'd wait. She had nothing better to do.
A/N: Written to the song "Green Gloves" by The National. Title taken from the same.