Sara's house felt exactly like Sara herself.
Small.
Warm.
Filled with stories.
Books covered almost every wall.
Bookshelves lined the hallway.
Books sat on tables.
Books occupied chairs.
Books existed in locations that probably violated several safety regulations.
The smell of old paper mixed with tea and cinnamon.
The entire house felt like living inside a novel.
The dining table had been expanded using additional chairs borrowed from neighbours.
Mrs Kapoor had contributed food.
Mrs Higgins had contributed dessert.
Sara had cooked soup herself despite everyone's objections.
The result was a strange but wonderful mixture of Indian food and English food.
Vegetable biryani beside roasted vegetables.
Paneer beside mashed potatoes.
Samosas beside homemade bread.
Nobody questioned it.
Everyone loved it.