25 Morrison Avenue

Chapter One

"Final stop, Klammen!" A fat man with a frown and a coffee flask violently stepped down on dusty brakes. The bus came to a screeching halt, swinging unfortunate passengers forward like sweaty marionettes. Kaya awoke with a startle, nearly kicking an elderly lady bearing a ridiculous fuschia explosion on her head in front of her. A whirlwind of emotions swirled inside of the confines of her ribcage as she took in the dreaded scenery outside the cracked window which served as an unforgiving pillow for the past six hours. Ghosts of frolicked on the other side of the glass, threatening to reach out and swallow her whole. She peeled her sweaty legs from the less than sanitary seat, cringing at the sound of cheap plastic and budget cuts, and pulled herself from her seat, her popping back an inconvenient reminder She tugged her ratty old backpack from the rack and started through the isle to Clahmen, or 'Klammen'"as the bus driver had kindly called it.

The doors opened with a tired hiss and she lifted her foot up, contemplating whether or not to put it down. Before she could finish her internal debate, the bus driver barked at her to move along and she quickly hopped off of the rickety germ bowl onto the melting pavement. Waving the bus goodbye, Kaya Alex Finn turned to greet the little, dusty old town that raised her. As Clahmen had no public transport other than the occasional bus, she adjusted her straps, pushed some loose curls behind her ears, and started walking.

Walking as slow as possible, she tried not to think about her reason for visiting. Instead, she turned her attention to the shops around her. Everything was exactly as she left it, the same multi-purpose grocery store, the same suspicious butchery, the same faded sign advertising Sue's boutique. Even the same flower stand that no-one ever seemed to visit. And, after a while, the same little brick house with the ugly greenish-yellow roof. She pushed open the familiar rickety gate and pushed down the familiar lump in throat.

Her childhood home no longer represented the fond memories she could once remember so vividly. For she knew that inside would not be the comforting smell of cheap tea brewing, or the smell of beef stew. Because as she reached forward and placed a shaking hand on the doorknob, all she felt was death. The key from under the cracked flower pot still fit and the door silently swung open and Kaya took in a shaky breath as a million memories washed over her alongside the musky smell of the combined kitchen, dining room and living room.

Cursing allergy season, she wiped at her eyes and continued towards the back of room. Walking past the kitchen area, she trailed her finger across the table, surprised by the faint amount of dust left on her finger. The kitchen as well as the rest of the space, was spotless. She always thought that her mother compensated for the lack of finance by obsessively cleaning. It was by no means a big place, consisting of three second hand couches in a half circle around an old t.v., and a small table with two chairs leading into a small kitchen space. Apart from the living area, there were two more bedrooms and a tiny bathroom.

Kaya went to the master bedroom. Like the rest of the house, and herself, she found it empty. Before her lay a single bed, with a small dresser and bedside table. And on the bed, just like she had been told by the less than sympathetic state lawyer, was the file containing a list of all she was to inherit form her mother.

Her mother. The slight woman with bags under her eyes and iron in her backbone who singlehandedly raised her and her two brothers. Dead. The woman she spent her entire childhood with but never knew. Her mother had... a silent love for her and her two brothers. At least that's what everyone kept telling her.

Barely breathing, she pushed her hair behind her ear and stepped forward to pick the thin folder up. It fell to the floor. She didn't bother to pick it up. There sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor like a thousand times before, she leafed through the folder until she found a letter. On it was written simply: ''Kaya".

Kaya hoped that this letter would give her some closure, maybe even a loving farewell. She quickly wiped at her tired eyes and then lifted the slip over the envelope, ready to read her mother's final words to her. Slowly, she unfolded the single white paper and read the contents:

25 Morrison Avenue, Philadelphia.

And only that. No farewell, no letters of love, no explanation. Kaya felt no better than when she first got on that cursed bus.

She spent the night staring at the ceiling trying to stop feeling forgotten.