Outside the sky is pink and orange; the sun just beginning to rise. People stop in the middle of the street, talking to their friends and neighbors. Languid, lazy, meaningless conversation that can last minutes or hours. Their voices float up through the small crack in the balcony door. The words becoming less distinct, losing shape and structure and morphing into an engulfing white noise: warm and comforting like the sun.
Inside it's quiet. The curtains are drawn, blocking the view of the park (an immense cluster of rich leafy green). The room's small and dark but with the curtains pulled back, light, glowing and cheerful, floods in transforming it. 
It's sparingly furnished: Some potted plants lean greedily towards the light coming from the balcony. A large green couch next to a glass coffee table. A bookshelf crammed with texts old, worn with faded gold lettering and peeling spines. A round dining table and five blue chairs. A huge wooden cabinet with glass panels. There are photos taped to the inside of the glass: A girl and a boy in swimwear smiling at the camera, arms wrapped around each other. A young woman elatedly crossing the Barcelona marathon's finish line. Three girls, beautiful, beaming, cross-legged on the floor. 
The overall effect is messy. But one can tell that they were placed there with great care and thought. There are two doors. Slim, tall, with dark wood frames and frosted glass panels. But what's beyond here doesn't matter. Here is where the memories are.

– Olivia Silver

Relationship:  Great-grandchild of im/migrant or more Great-grandchild of im/migrant or more