Home Is Where the Heart Is

Her home was unlike any other. It was hers, yet it was also everyone else’s.

Originally, her house had belonged to her mother, now sadly no longer of this world. With her passing, the house had transferred to her. However, it was also a base of sorts for all the weary travellers of the world; explorers and adventurers she had met along her travels, or who had simply heard of her through friends on the road.

When she stepped out of the house, to visit the market, or relax a while in the park, the first thing she would check upon her return was the shoe rack in the entry foyer. Often, it would be overloaded; boots, heels, sandals, clogs… At a glance, she could get an idea of who was now in the house; or at least, what type of people.

Hardened travellers, their boots heavy and thick, the toes scuffed, mud from over two dozen countries dried into the soles.

Wandering spirits, their slippers colourful and gaudy, laces and ribbons adorning the fringes and fluttering gaily at the barest hint of a breeze.

Humble nomads, their sandals simple and plain, straps fraying, edges discoloured by sand and sweat.

Her guests came in all shapes and sizes; all personalities and ethnicities.

She’d gather her things and proceed to the living room, a large open space with a waist high dividing wall separating it from the kitchen. Here, she’d usually find the first of her guests; curled up in one of the ancient armchairs, sitting lightly upon the antique chest that doubled as a coffee table, or perhaps zoning out in front of the television and retro games console. A bookcase dominated one of the walls, and it was not uncommon to see new books occupying prime position on the shelves, donations from travellers as they swapped out tomes they’d long finished reading for suitable replacements that caught their eye.

Moving to the kitchen, she’d put away any groceries and pour herself a glass of water, refreshing herself from the heat outside. She’d then stand and engross herself a moment in the scents and fragrances of the kitchen. The kitchen smelled of the world, hints of ingredients from around the planet wafting lazily through the air, brought into her home by countless guests. They would often enthusiastically cook for her, eager to show off recipes learnt on their travels, the aroma of fresh food filling the house. Biscuits, cakes, roasts, stews, soups… Each dish spoke of its origins, and the care with which they were prepared demonstrated the heart of the cook.

To the left of the kitchen was the bathroom, and it too was often a symphony for the senses, guests placing a myriad of perfumes and essential oils upon the shelves and surfaces. Bath salts glistened in kaleidoscopic colours from small bottles and vials around the tub, and shells and curios retrieved from distant locales were dotted in any free space that could be found. The air was perpetually scented, hanging heavy and humid, the steam rolling out welcomingly as soon as the door was opened.

Opposite the bathroom a spiralling staircase of oak led up to the second floor. Here, guest rooms were scattered in all directions, though some travellers still seemed to prefer the floor or fluffed cushions of the living room over the comfy beds provided; a life living out on the road could prove difficult to shake, and it was easier for some to simply sleep on the hardened floor, their bodies more acclimatised to the unyielding surface.

Her bedroom was also located on the second floor, though it was often the case that she would step inside and find a traveller availing themselves of the space, it being the only room with a computer and printer. Such a scenario was to be expected, and she accepted it with grace; she knew that all would respect her space, and none would overstay their welcome or intrude at an unsociable hour. Her bed would always remain untouched, and her bedside table littered with notes and books that she had left herself.

On the landing just outside her room was the staircase to the attic. The attic itself had originally been a place for storage, though given the number of guests who frequented the house she’d soon turned it into additional living space. Boxes of knick-knacks and sentimental novelties were still stored there, though now guests too laid down bedrolls between the aisles and huddled down for the night. The attic was warm and homey, much like the rest of the house, and was noticeably absent the chills and eerie shadows that seemed to so frequent other people’s dwellings.

Those unaccustomed to her house where often taken aback at first sight. They were thrown and unnerved by the vast spectacle of noise, colours, shapes, and smells. They did not know what to make of the crowd of people that seemingly mingled and interspersed at random in the narrow confines of the house.

She would simply smile and tell them to relax; they’d get used to it soon enough. They usually did, new friendships striking up in mere moments, relationships forming which may last years or even decades.

Even so, she was often asked if it bothered her to have so many people in her home, invading her privacy, making use of and consuming her space. To this she would simply shake her head. The guests were a part of her family. They shared with her the stories of their travels. They opened her eyes to the world outside the place she lived. They allowed her to taste and sample culinary creations from across the continent. They gifted her with souvenirs and curios from other places, times, and cultures. They treated her with respect, and each gave to her what they deemed fair for the gift of her hospitality to them, donating money if they could afford it, but more often than not simply their time in cleaning, tidying, maintaining, and decorating the space.

Most importantly of all however, they gave her reason to smile, their constant presence a reminder of how things had been when her mother had filled their home with her love and energy; welcoming all and turning away none, it was she who had first embraced the house and sculpted it into the bustling hub of activity that it had become, packed with adventurers and travellers, some of whom still visited today. Just by being there, they provided a sweet touch of familiarity, gently nourishing the hole left by her mother’s passing.

For that gift, she could not thank them enough.

Her house would always be her home, but she would share it with all.