From a novel in progress

Alone in the house, before Vin had moved in, Sophie had found the evidence of earlier owners in the attic, under the sink, on shelves—drawings left behind by children, marbles trapped beneath the radiator cover, a single sweater in the closet, a collection of dried lady bugs, laid out like counting beads, upon the guest-room sill. She had studied the scratches on the floor and imagined the traffic of past lives, had acclimated herself to the idea of spirits and specters, phantasmagoria. She understood, better than she’d ever let on, obsession.