There is a house down the street with shuttered windows and a chimney that never stops smoking. The front porch is sprinkled with dirt and leaves as a broken little rocking chair creaks in the breeze. Ivy and morning glories creep up the off-white walls of the house, snaking in between cracks and crawling through the dusty bricks. The walkway up to the house is riddled with pieces of loose cement eager to come free, and there is a half dead tree in the yard, hollowed and broken, its withered branches bare.

But just behind the house there is a garden, a garden full of fruit trees, flowers, and bushes filled to the brim with berries. And hidden among the flower stamen and behind the leaves is the tinkling of soft laughter and the whisper of contented sighs. When the wind is quiet and the sun is high, footsteps can be heard, rustling through branches and splashing in puddles. Little hands tug at dandelion fluff and push twigs into the rain dampened earth, leaving behind blankets of petals and freshly cut grass.

There is a house down the street...