The boy looked up at the tree that he had grown up with. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t spend hours studying under its shade or when he swung on a tire dangling down from its long branches. He looked at his bed and his walls. They were so bare since the posters had come off, and only tiny remains were still visible. The bedsheets were still Star Wars and the desk was still dented from the time he had dropped his water bottle on it. It wasn’t until he had finally gotten his house back that the boy had realized he already started to forget the way the walls seemed to curve towards you when you moved down the hallway, or the way the kitchen counter was never quite the correct shade of black. The boy laid on the bed surrounded by the memories that remained in those walls for years. He was finally home.