Delomay Jacobs stepped off of the Greyhound bus, grabbing her forest green duffel bag from the driver as she went. The lush emerald valley might have been slightly more panoramic had the circumstances been better, but Delomay didn't mind. She hadn't come to Dargenville for the beautiful landscapes.
Delomay walked along the sidewalks that wove through the quaint little town, in search of number 32 Laren Street.
"Hello?" She called, peering into each building. Barber shop, Tailor, Sammy's Sundries...Weird. Old-fashioned buildings, probably meant for older people. Delomay sincerely hoped that Dargenville wasn't a retirement community. And then she saw it.
32 Laren Street was a medium-sized yellow house with white trim. Delomay knocked on the small eggshell-colored door. She heard scrambling inside. A tall, grey-haired lady appeared on the stoop. The woman stared at her. "Savannah?"
"No, I'm Delomay. You must be my grandma." The tall lady smiled in a kind of confused way. "It's been so long...You look just like Savannah. Bill! Bill, come here!"
A stout-looking man toddled up beside her.
"Good morning. I'm your Grandpappy. We met before, but it's been so long I doubt'cha remember. I'll be readin' mah newspaper, so Prudence'll have to show ya 'round." Bill grunted and retreated back into the house.
"Well, now that us girls are alone, I'll be your tour guide. Let me show you where you sleep."

Prudence led Delomay up a large rosewood staircase, stopping at a white door. "It was your mother's room," She said. "I've not been in it since she's gone missing." Delomay turned the brass knob.
Inside was the most beautiful, ornate room she had ever seen. The walls were painted a blue as soft as wool, and in the corner was something that Delomay faintly remembered. A melody started to play in her head. "Darling?" Delomay blinked. The memory was gone.
"Grandma?" She asked, eying the glossy grand piano. "How long has it been since someone played that piano?"
A ghost appeared on her face.
"N-Not since your mother left for college. She used to be quite the pianist but then she went and marri-Oh! My lasagna's in the oven! I'll be right back, dear."
Delomay stared at the empty doorway, the dusty cream-colored paint peeling off the frame. She turned back to the piano and sat on the black vinyl stool. Her fingers stroked the keys, and she felt her mother's touch in the ivory.
Delomay was home at last.