He had taken out a mortgage to pay for the house. A two story Victorian, with olive green shingles that threatened to blow off in the wind. The windows had to be slammed shut, and it was best not to open them again. The tap needed to constantly drip just slightly in the depths of winter, or else the pipes would freeze and burst, but Christopher didn't know that yet in the bliss of June weather.
Her stuff was long collecting dust when he had finally decided to unpack his load of boxes. She hated it. The clothes he shoved into the drawers. How they crumpled and made the drawers above difficult to open with the pressure. Christopher even disappeared to the hardware store, replacing the authentic knobs on all the kitchen cabinets. As if the house's "vintage charm" wasn't the realtor's main selling point. She made it very clear she was not pleased with this decision by screwing them all off in the middle of the night, leaving them scattered on the floor. Basking in quiet pleasure when he tripped on them the next morning on his way to the coffeepot, and how he had to call out of work because he pulled a back muscle. She played nice with him the rest of the day because despite his despicable interior design choices, she did actually prefer it when he was home. It got lonely without him.
She'd sing when he wasn't home. Liking how her airy voice echoed against the tall ceilings. She'd abruptly stop whenever he slammed the fragile door too hard after work. She couldn't help herself at night, though, when she thought he was asleep. She'd slip downstairs and hum, the vibrations of her vocals combining with the constant buzz of the fridge, becoming one with the house. Unbeknownst to her, Christopher would be curled in bed, pretending her trills were actually the wind.
She had to put her foot down when it came to the flat screen. Wide, black, and sore on the eyes against the original crown molding of the living room. She screamed at him, only getting louder when he ignored her to focus on his weak wiring job. She never was one to break things, but he had some nerve. The glass shattered on the floor, a puddle of shards in its wake. He looked at it, horrified.
"What do you want from me!?" he roared. A spec of spit flinging in the air from his mouth.
Even with all his anger, he could not look at her. Eyes seeing through her, and instead intently focused on the glass. At least it was her own vase. He had cleaned up the glass, and they fell into a routine of ignoring the other’s existence. She continued to sing under her breath. He continued to pay his mortgage. She huffed a laugh when he ran his hands through his hair at the dining room table, a stack of bills beside him. She herself had paid in full in cash. 108 years ago.