Shyronaut
The footsteps echoed throughout the hallways of the wounded home. She was barefoot and still the sound made was as hostile as those of tap shoes. She hadn't been there in a while and hadn't planned the return, yet here she was, anyway, cold and alone.
His tables were oak. He said it to me with pride. He said it as if it was supposed to impress me, but it really didn't. Oak wasn't an uncommon wood to use for table-making. He looked at me, disappointed, because apparently I was the first person not impressed by his oak tables. I think the others were just lying to him, because oak tables are not something to obsess over.