It was an old house. The first time she laid her eyes on it, she was very pleased. It had many creaks and many cracks. Each one told a story and invited her into a new adventure. After all, a girl with an imagination surely could not live in a boring house. Her mother hated all the wallpaper inside. It was everywhere. In every room. Layers upon layers had to be steamed off piece by piece. She looked around at each piece of torn wallpaper. Each damp shred a part of a story now thrown in a mushy pile on the floor. She thought of the different people who had taken such care to match up all those pieces of paper on the wall. So proud of their choice, excited about how great it looked. Now their choices were outdated and the wrong color for the new inhabitants. She wondered what stories those pieces of paper could tell. The things those walls had seen. But it didn’t matter now. As her mother scooped up all the scraps off the floor and stuffed them into a garbage bag she said goodbye to those stories. It was sad really. She had a moment of silence as she carried the bag down to the trash pile in the basement. She looked at the bag, then tossed it away. A little sad that what one person had loved so much, another person didn’t like at all.