Grandma’s House was that quiet, familiar corner of my childhood that also became home to many visits from everyone in the family. The dark blue bike, slightly crooked yet parked against a low wall and looking like it was dropped in a hurry, probably belonged to a cousin making his way inside to Grandma.
 
It rests under the thick shade of leafy green trees, painted so loosely and softly in a semi-realistic, wispy style that it’s almost as if you can hear the wind whistling through them.
This bike at Grandma’s house is a snapshot of a simpler time. It’s a symbol of visits, stories, and moments spent in a place that always felt like home.