This isn’t the house on Chartley Avenue; this is a house in Vancouver’s West end.

I’d like to think this house is warm, loving and full of laughter.

The house on Chartley Avenue was a sad, sad place where awful things transpired.

On an unexceptionally normal evening, we went by the house on Chartley Avenue.

We took the train to Wembley Park and then the bus towards Neasden, except the bus went the opposite direction.

We figured it out and got off at the next stop.

When we got to the town centre, I looked around hoping for the familiar but everything seemed foreign, it had been over a decade after all.

Then I saw the hairdresser’s, it didn’t look anything like I remembered but I knew it was supposed to be there, a small path leads to an alleyway right behind the house.

The house looked the same; small, old and lived-in. I imagined I’d walk in and relive the hurt.

The lights were on inside, I stood outside for a long time, not sure how to feel.

At that moment it was just another house. Sure, unimaginable things happened here but it was still just a house.

There was a small window to the tiny room Erica and I used to hide out, even the curtains looked the same.

I wonder about the people who live there now, are they happy? I hope they’re kind to each other and if there are children, I pray they’re treated nicely.

I stood there for a long time trying to remember, what was the worse memory?

What was the ugliest thing that ever happened here?

I thought it’ll be emotional, self-fulfilling or powerful even.

It was just a house, and it stood there, it reminded of these words: “Humans, not places, make memories”