Lost love is still love. It takes a different form, that's all. You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken, another heightens. Memory.
Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it.

- Mitch Albom -

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My old room didn't look too different from what it had looked like when I still lived there. The furniture mostly stood in the same places, even though it was certainly not the same bed I had been sleeping in, anymore.

The walls were painted in a bright green and a rather dull ivory, making the wooden floor look very sophisticated.

A soft breeze moved the white curtains and some rays of sunlight reflected on the green walls, creating a spectacular mixture of colours and light.

If I were still living here, I would certainly love this room. No doubts I had developed a strange love-hate relationship for my old room, due to the various memories I shared with it.

I sighed. Not really much work to do here.

Sally had left flowers, bowls and all kind of random things on the bed, covered by a thick, flower-printed blanket. She really had done most of my job, and she had done it more than well.

Closing the door behind me, I stepped into the room, glancing around and breathing in the scent of fresh paint. Everything smelled and looked new and fresh but in a way it all seemed strangely familiar.

I walked over to the bed, letting my fingers brush over the new blanket before sitting down.

All those memories…

Just every time you go to a place you've seen before, all those old memories come crashing down on you, burying you underneath their heavy weight of emotions. Sadness, glory, happiness, doubts, passion, anger, serenity, humour, love…..

My eyes closed and I tried to picture what had happened in this room.

Memories from my childhood until today fluttered in front of my inner eye, confusing me. Most of them were blurry, due to the immense amount of time which had passed since those memories had been present. Others were dark und foggy – things which I didn't want to remember…. Some just consisted of colours and the vague shadow of a smell or sound…. There were those memories which were as clear as a picture framed behind glass… new and shiny, always clean und looked after, carefully sheltered. Those of which you are afraid to loose…

And then, there was my very own sort of memories. The kind of thoughts and pictures from which I partly wanted to leave my mind, but on the other hand, desperately tried to hold on to them. Just because they were so perfect. Like a fairy-tale I was told by my mom when I was a child, like a lullaby you long forgot, like the soothing sound of rain dripping against a window, like the brilliant sunlight burning it´s way through the thick layer of fog on a cold morning… Too beautiful to forget.

But remembering these so vivid memories, as clear as the rather recent or most precious ones, hurt. They were too beautiful to be real, and yet, one day, long ago, they had been real. In a reality which now was lost. Now was sane and decent. A solid world. Then had been a dream.

And my memories resembled a dream. Clear as reality, but without any logical connection. Too colourful, too many details, too much things a normal memory could not offer. Intense scents, the exact feeling of things that were touched, sounds, just as distinct as though they were spoken in this very moment.

Knowing that all this had been true and lost, was crucial.

I loved my life, loved every piece of it. I could not be happier, neither did I ever feel the wish to trade it, change it or leave it, like I had so often before.

Seeing my children's smile, the flash in their eyes, hearing them laugh – I would never want to miss that.

But I knew that if I were given the choice at the time I chose my life the way it is now – my children's laughs for sure would never have been heard by anybody. They would not exist. Because I knew for sure which choice I would have made. Which path I would have chosen.

As much as I loved Jacob and my life, it – or lat least, at the time: the idea of it – could not have competed against the other alternative.

An eternity of youth, power and love. How could have something as simple as a happy life with a happy ending win over something otherworldly, magical? Who would chose reality if you were offered a dream, a fairy-tale?

I had accepted my loss a long time ago, learned to appreciate what I was given. But sometimes, when my mind was trailing off into the past, I dared to think about where I would be right now.

Too much time had passed to truthfully remember them. Him. They now only existed in my memory.

My mind had, for a long time, tried too hard to forget them, every tiny piece of information, in order to keep myself alive, and so now basic pieces to the truth were missing. Pieces I needed to create a true picture of what might have been.

So now I was left with dreams and fantasies, seeing myself like a fairy in some mystic place.

I knew it was the complete opposite of what would actually have been, childish even, but how was I supposed to think differently? It was all that was left for me.

I opened my eyes again, blinking when the bright sunlight caused a stabbing pain inside my head. Turning my head in the direction of the door, my way crossed a mirror hanging next to the closet.

My eyes fixed on the woman staring back at me. Pale, long and dark hair, tired eyes, her shoulders hanging slightly from the weight of too many thoughts, shadows under her eyes, framed by tiny wrinkles.

It was me.

Me, looking the way I would never have looked like if my life went the way I wanted it to go.

Older, mature, aged. Time had taken my youth.

And now, there was no way back.

Never.

Deciding it was time to get started, I shook my head and got up from the bed, sighing. My feet already hurt. This morning I had decided to wear my new high heels. I had bought them last week, planning to wear them to the baptism of Sam and Emily's daughter Mia in two weeks.

Knowing myself far too well I knew that wearing those shoes for a whole day would probably destroy my feet, so it might be a good idea to wear them before in order to get used to them.

Great.

Now my feet would hurt for the rest of the week. But on the other hand, I had survived my wedding as well, so what was another single day compared to that?

Breathing in deeply I inhaled the sweet scent of flowers while I put them into a glass vase. This would be my final act here for today. All cushions were placed, old souvenirs placed on the ledge, bowls with flowers or candles placed on various surfaces. And now, there was the huge vase which my father had bought Sally for her birthday two years ago. It was now filled with the most amazing bouquet of flowers, all kind of colours.

I held the heavy vase in front of my body, eying my arrangement with a little pride. Then I let my eyes wander through the room, looking for the perfect spot to place it.

A small side table stood in the right corner of the room, a pile of books rested on top of it. This would be just perfect.

I carefully placed the vase on the desk and made my way toward the small wooden table. My fingers stroke over the book spines, feeling the rough material.

I recognized some of them as my own, the ones I had left here because there was simply no more room in the house Jacob and me had bought.

A low, girly squeak escaped me when I saw my ancient version of Macbeth. I had been looking for this for ages, determined not to have left it at Charlie's house. Apparently I had been wrong.

I carried the heavy books to the desk and lifted each one up on the half-empty shelf, which now gave the room a more cosy atmosphere.

A few minutes later all the books were stowed on the shelf, all except my Macbeth.

I groaned, my arms feeling numb and my feet screaming at me, wanting me to take off my shoes. But I would be brave today.

So I grabbed the vase and took one careful step after the other toward the side table.

I was only a few feet away from the table when a hollow sound underneath my feet distracted me.

I froze immediately and dropped my head down at my feet. Nothing but the floorboards. I wrinkled my nose and shook my head in confusion.

My hands placed the vase on the table in a more than slow movement and walked a few steps back in order to marvel at my masterpiece. Again, the hollow sound distracted me.

"What -?"

I stomped my right feet on the floorboard underneath me and again it sounded concave. Testing the other boards I spent a few minutes with walking through my old room like a maniac and stomping on each board. None of them sounded like the one near to the side table.

A little adventurer had awoken inside me and my mind started to race. What if, whoever built this house, hid something underneath that floorboard? Like in the movies when they find something valuable or important. And why had I never noticed this floorboard before?

Then it came back into my mind. My old commode, which now stood in my living room, used to stand right at the corner of this floorboard.

I was excited. There might be a secret to discover.

My foot stomped on the floorboard again, just making sure my mind did not play any tricks at me. It wasn't. The sound was quite obviously very different from the ones the other boards made.

Slowly and careful not to break my feet in my shoes I knelt down and gently hammered my fist against the wood, feeling slightly stupid. It was hollow. No doubt.

I let my eyes wander trough the room, looking for something to lift the board with.

There was a toolbox next to the bed. I finally kicked of my shoes and my feet immediately felt better. Barefoot now I tip-toed through the room, goose bumps covering my skin right after my feet hit the cold floor.

When I opened the rather dirty box I wondered if Jacob had left it here. He never kept his stuff clean and I couldn't remember to have ever seen my father with a toolbox. However, I was too excited to think about that and so I made my way trough various tools.

It was hopeless. I had absolutely no idea which one to use, so I quickly stepped back to the floorboard and kneeled down again. This time I lowered my head and I felt ridiculous. What was I doing?

Being a total child. Well, just this once.

Hope set inside of me when I realized that the floorboard was loose. I just needed something to lift it.

"Can't be that difficult…"

I remembered seeing a hammer in the toolbox and I could definitely use it for my little mission. So again, I got up and quickly made my way to the bed, grabbing the hammer from the box and I was back at the floorboard in less than a second. At least, it felt like it.

A laughter escaped me while I stuck the flat, sharp back of the hammer into the small cleft between the boards and I carefully started to lift the board.

It was easier than I had thought and with a little force it finally loosened and I dropped the hammer.

My breathing was fast now, my heartbeat racing in anticipation. Probably threw would only be dirt and dust down there, maybe some dead mouses or something like that. But still – who knows?

I grabbed the board and lay it next to me on the floor. Dust covered my hands and the floor around me, the sharp smell of rotten wood and dirt burned my nose.

"Urgh…"

Well, there always has to be a price to pay. And this was an easy one, but still everything but pleasant.

A little fear came over me when I leaned closer to the gap in the floor. I hesitated.

There was nothing I could see for the dust covered my view. But sure like hell I would not stick my hand inside there without knowing what awaited me.

I inhaled deeply and blew as much air as I could into the cloud, making it swirl around my head.

I coughed. This was just disgusting.

But my attempt seemed to work. The dust slowly settled on the floor and granted me a view inside the gap.

Sometimes I wish my curiosity had never won control over me…