Dear Diary, Today, the air was sweet with lilac, and the light danced across the floorboards just so. I spent the morning sitting on the front porch, my yellow house behind me, warm and familiar, watching the world pass by on Locust Avenue. Mr. Evans waved as he walked toward Cooper River Park, and the children from down the street came giggling past, their shoes scuffing the red brick path Papa laid by hand. The house, though modest in size, feels like it could hold a lifetime. The wide plank floors creak with comforting whispers, and in the dining room, Mama’s china rests in the built-in cupboard, quietly waiting for Sunday supper. In the kitchen, sunlight pours through the skylight, warming my hands as I write, and I imagine one day kneading bread here with flour in my hair and laughter in the walls. I dream of creating artwork in our cozy back room, wistfully looking over our verdant garden. There’s a winding staircase that leads to my bedroom, my favorite place. I lie awake some nights listening to the breeze through the trees, dreaming of love letters tucked under my bed, or poems written beneath the eaves. A place to keep the stories of our family safe. I know this house isn’t grand by town standards. But what it is… is ours. It’s the kind of place you can grow old in. The kind of place where you mark time with pencil on the doorframe and fall asleep to the scent of flowers and woodsmoke. Should someone else find this letter tucked between the pages of time, I hope they’ll feel the magic here, too. My little yellow house on Locust Avenue, with its cheerful face and quiet dignity, isn’t just a home. It’s a heart with walls.