I stood in the grass beside the driveway.

The pink tricycle had a white basket and one training wheel.

I stared at it in the grass.

I pulled into our driveway on Elm Street just after six.

The spring air was starting to cool, and the streetlights were just flickering on.

I unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped into the foyer.

The smell of roasted garlic, rosemary, and searing meat drifted down the hallway.

Soft trumpet music played from the kitchen speakers.