Read the following excerpt from a memoir:
"In my childhood, weekends were spent at my grandmother's house, a place filled with the aromas of cinnamon and freshly baked bread. To me, it was not just a home but a sanctuary where every creak of the floorboards told a story. As I sat by the window, watching the world outside, I often reflected on how seemingly mundane moments were imbued with profound significance. The laughter of my cousins echoed in my ears while my grandmother shared tales of her youth, weaving a tapestry of our family history that felt both distant and intimately close. All of this transpired against the backdrop of a world changing rapidly, but inside, in her kitchen, time seemed to stand still."