It began when I saw dark brown Shirley Temple curls bouncing down a corridor.
And it began with a phone call, a red shirt, eyes as big as jawbreakers, and two twelve-year-olds.
During a time where the stickiness of the Summer did not bother me so much and cicadas buzzed to an indecipherable rhythm, I rode my bicycle to a house that had become very familiar very fast. A house hidden away, nearly swallowed by the surrounding forest, standing tall against the shadow of a dog named Oreo.