When I was a kid, I used to pass these two houses next to one another every day on my way to school, tucked under a bridge, with their faces turned sideways to the thoroughfare. Large, sprawling, yellow bungalows, right out of a Ruskin Bond book, with dense green backyards and pretty gravel driveways and a pair of enchanted swings in the corner of a yellow courtyard. And every day, I looked out for them from my windows and secretly acknowledged their presence with a deep sense of comfort, like nodding at two strangers you see everyday on the bus on your way to work and knowing everything's all right with the world.
I never knew who lived there, but then again, it never really mattered.
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