Welcome, they said. The door opened, she entered the house. The kitchen looked old, the sofa in the reception a odd shade of pink. The bedroom, pale green, contained a wardrobe, drawer and a stern looking bed. There was no garden, just a small patio. She took it and moved the day after. She brought her books and clothing in a small bag.
She bought the parrot a week later. When it died, she scoured the ads for a taxidermist and got it stuffed. Nobody visited her and she did not visit anybody either. She wanted to forget everything and leave no trace. When the young man came to knock on her door, it was a surprise she let him in. He came out with a small bag and the parrot. She died a week later.
It was only at her death inquest that they discover that the young man was her grandchild, who had tracked her down. Her only son had left home when he was fourteen and she never heard from him again until that day. Fifty years had passed.
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