The kitchen. Pretty much where she spent a greater part of her time. Randomly throwing spices, cleaning up and spraying repellent on little red ants that crawled their way up to some new tidbit they had stumbled upon.
The bedroom. Clothes flying, arranging shelves, holding up curtains, wiping windown clean, making the bed, lounging and feeling the ache in various parts of her body and mind. Sweeping, mopping, swatting flies and reading. Working. Trying hopelessly to declare it a no-laptops zone.
The living room. The little seating lounge she has fashioned out of nothing. The lights, the lamps, lighting little fire lamps and letting the breeze flood into her home, warm her hearth and lighten her heart.
The dining room, where she saw him eat, work and talk, where she heard the breeze flow helter skelter, drying her clothes and carrying aromas from other kitchens into her home, some palatable, some disgusting.
The bathroom, where she let the water run on her skin, feel the cold trickles seep into te warm skin, blood gushing in her veins, scrubbing her face and hair, brushing her teeth, drying the floor and collecting stray bits of hair.
The balcony, clothes drying up and windswept hair on her face. Neighbours peering in, some smiling, some looking through.
Her feet on the floor, her eyes on the sights. How do they make a house a home? By making it lived in.