It hadn’t always been hers. Once, it had been a toolshed for the man who built the house long ago. But the roof had softened with moss, the little window had cracked like a spider’s web, and the door hung crooked on its hinges. To most people, it was an eyesore. To Carrie, it was a castle.
The playhouse looked different in the dark. Smaller. Older. The crooked door hung like a tired mouth. Carrie sat down in the doorway and turned off the flashlight. The stars blinked through the willow branches. carries playhouse
In the morning, the movers came. They packed boxes and rolled up rugs. Carrie’s father hooked the trailer to the truck. No one said much about the playhouse. It was just an old shed, after all. It hadn’t always been hers
That was where the magic began.
On sunny mornings, it was a bakery. She’d sneak sugar cookies from the kitchen and arrange them on a leaf platter. She’d serve mud pies with dandelion sprinkles to her stuffed rabbit, Mr. Puddles, who was, of course, the mayor of a nearby town. To most people, it was an eyesore
The night before the moving truck came, she couldn’t sleep. She crept downstairs, pulled on her rain boots, and walked to the willow tree with a flashlight.
Carrie was seven years old, and she had a secret. The secret lived at the bottom of her backyard, beneath the sprawling arms of an old willow tree. It was her playhouse.