The blue house was where it had all begun.

At first it had seemed huge to her. The half-mile walk from her own home to the blue house, with its fading paint and cheerful curtains, had seemed like an eternity to a six year old girl carrying that black violin case, just one untied sneaker after the other, step by step.

All of her favorite memories had been within the blue walls of that house.

Gently unclasping the latches on the case, pulling out her violin with the reverence and awe that only a young child has. Carefully applying rosin, adjusting the music stand to her height, placing the white pages just so on its wire frame.

Letting the bow slide across the strings and marveling at the music that appeared, shimmering in the air before her.

She came to the blue house to escape. When the yelling and the screaming became too much to bear, the blue house was her haven.

So when they painted it a dull, boring beige, it was as if they had taken something from her.

It would never be quite the same again.