It hadn’t always been hers. Once, it had been a toolshed for the man who built the house long ago. But the roof had softened with moss, the little window had cracked like a spider’s web, and the door hung crooked on its hinges. To most people, it was an eyesore. To Carrie, it was a castle.
On rainy afternoons, the playhouse became a ship. The willow branches were sails, and the drumming rain on the tin roof was the sound of cannons from enemy frigates. Carrie would hold the chipped teacup like a spyglass and shout orders to her imaginary first mate, a brave mouse named Captain Biscuit. carries playhouse
So she did. She swept out the dirt and dead leaves. She pulled away the old burlap sacks and found a chipped teacup with a rose painted on it. She lined the windowsill with smooth white stones she’d collected from the creek. Her mother gave her a worn velvet cushion, and Carrie set it in the corner like a throne. It hadn’t always been hers
For the next three weeks, she visited the playhouse every single day. She brought Captain Biscuit (who was, in reality, a pebble she’d named) and Mr. Puddles. She traced the crack in the window with her finger. She smelled the old wood and the dry grass and the dust motes dancing in the golden light. She tried to memorize everything. To most people, it was an eyesore
She didn’t cry. She smiled.
The playhouse looked different in the dark. Smaller. Older. The crooked door hung like a tired mouth. Carrie sat down in the doorway and turned off the flashlight. The stars blinked through the willow branches.