The house was always alive with the sound of little footsteps. Each morning, the children would tumble down the staircase, their hands sliding along the smooth wooden railing as they raced toward the kitchen, where the scent of breakfast greeted them. The hallway filled with laughter and sleepy voices, a gentle reminder that the day had already begun.

The living room, with its soft, sunlit sofa, became the stage for countless memories. “One more story, please,” the children would plead at bedtime, curled up under blankets as their parents read from worn pages. On weekends, the sofa became a fort, cushions stacked high to guard against imaginary dragons. And when the rain tapped on the windows, the family gathered close—board games scattered across the rug, hot chocolate in hand, laughter echoing until the storm passed.

The kitchen is the heart of the home. More than a space for cooking, it's a place where life unfolded. On Saturday mornings, flour dusted the counters as the children, aprons far too big for them, pressed cookie cutters into the dough. Their father stood back, smiling, as their mother gently helped guide little hands. The table became everything—a stage for birthday cakes covered in candles, a desk for late-night homework, a gathering place where dinners stretched into hours because no one wanted the conversation to end.

From the dining room, every corner of the house seemed alive. Through one doorway, a child bent over crayons, filling page after page with drawings. Through another, the dog dozed in its favorite spot, the rise and fall of its chest a steady rhythm in the background. Beyond the glass doors, summer evenings carried the sound of soccer balls thudding against the fence, and the soft glow of fireflies that appeared when bedtime was near.