Shed at the bottom of the garden…

I turn a corner down the path of my grandparent’s cottage. The door of the garden shed creaks slightly, swaying on its tired rusty hinge, the subtle breeze nudging the wooden frame. It is empty inside, but filled with a damp musty smell that my nostrils recognise from past years of hide and seek where I would hold my nose to stop it from sneezing. Time seems to have solidified under the moss encrusted canopy of glass above. The plastic plant pots, the deck chairs, the gardening tools have gone and a girl much older and much bigger than the shed remembers, stands, slightly hunched, peering around to gather the soil and debris of her cherished memories.