The interior was dark, and I was happy to find a light switch just inside the door. As the light went on, a long hallway was illuminated, with doors appearing to open to several other rooms along the way. Right next to me was the entry to the living room. I closed the door behind me and moved into the living room, turning on more lights as I did so.

The room was charming and filled with color. Three walls were light blue, while one wall was painted maroon. A white sofa and two floral-covered chairs faced each other on either side of a fireplace. Each piece of furniture had a bright pillow and a throw blanket over the back. There were lots of paintings on the walls, but no photographs.

I left the living room to explore the rest of the house. A guest bathroom was across from what appeared to be a guest bedroom, judging by the size of the room and the impersonal feel to the décor. Farther down the hall, I found a kitchen and family room as well as a staircase. I moved up the stairs and discovered the master bedroom and bath.

A window was open in the bedroom, a light breeze blowing the curtain in front of it.

The bed was unmade, a soft cocoon of blankets and pillows, but only one side of the bed appeared to have been slept in. There wasn't any evidence that a man lived in this house or even a roommate of any gender.

I walked back down the stairs and looked around the kitchen and family room. There were no photographs here, either. But there had to be some clues to my mother's life.

As my gaze drifted across the room, I let out a gasp. In the corner was a violin, and it took me back in time.

My mother had played the violin almost every night, and she'd taught me how to play before I was in kindergarten. The music had bonded us in inexplicable ways and seeing the instrument now sent a deep, aching pain through me. I'd kept on playing after she died because I'd wanted to stay close to her. When her face faded from my mind, it would reappear when I played. My music kept her alive. It had gotten me through the horrible days when missing her had consumed me, had made me feel like I'd lost a piece of myself.

I moved across the room and picked up the violin, running my fingers over the wood and the strings. It wasn't the violin she'd played with me. She'd left that behind when she'd gone to New Orleans, but this one looked old. It showed signs of wear but also signs of care.