When Houses Become Homes, and Vice Versa

Like all creatures, the House was once a child.

It came to be on a clear winter afternoon, when the wind blew up flakes of snow into unsuspecting mittens. A stout man, rather round in the middle and tomato red in the cheeks, wheezed loudly as he trudged behind his wife. "Happy birthday, Catherine." he panted breathlessly. "I hope you like it. "

As if by a charm, a sharp breeze brushed by the woman's pointed cheeks. She kept silent, but her thin lips curled in to a smile.

The House used to be filled with light.

In the morning, as the sun rose sleepily from the smooth blue sea, the House would flutter its curtains with pleasure and a gentle waft of sea spray would float through the window. The soft fringes of sunlight would caress the bright faces of the Master and Mistress, and a chip of wind might brush on a dimpled cheek. 

Those days were happy days, where scents of tea and happiness floated freely.

There is a very clear difference between a house and a home. A house is a simple, unfeeling box that people live in. A home is a spirit, a flame that keeps burning with the fuel of love and joy.