“I need to talk it through with Owen,” I say. “The business is still new, and travel might affect our local plans.”
“Of course,” she says. “Just get back to me by tomorrow morning. We need to lock the contract before cameras roll.”
When the call ends, I close the laptop. Afternoon sun filters through the windows. The house is quiet.
It used to be that quiet meant empty. Now, it feels like pause. Like space. Like the house is waiting for me to figure it out.
This deal would’ve been the dream—mobility, visibility, built-in distance. But that version of me doesn’t fit anymore. I don’t want to bounce between cities and relationships and temporary work. I want coffee from Marge’s. I want dinner at the small table we picked out. I want to stay.
I hear a truck outside. Owen’s back.
Finn jumps from the passenger seat and bolts for the porch. Owen follows, as steady and sure as always.
That’s it. That’s the answer. I just need to find a way to keep what matters.
“Ms. Winslow?Please sign here, and initial next to the date.”
The county inspector slides the form across the counter. We’re standing in Maple Glen’s municipal building—one office, three desks, and a wall of finger-painted sunflowers.
“This certifies final inspection is complete,” she says. “Congratulations. The property is now legally recognized as a dwelling. Everything meets or exceeds county requirements.”
“Didn’t know about the violations when I bought it,” I say, signing. “Drunk auctions don’t come with disclosures.”
The inspector cracks a smile. “What matters is what you did with it. Not many people would’ve followed through.”
Owen stands beside me, his expression professionally neutral, but I catch the quiet pride in his posture. This recognition means more to him than he’ll ever say—proof that all the late nights and structural compromises added up to something real.
“And the property name for official county records?” the inspector asks, pen hovering.
I glance at Owen. We haven’t talked about what to call it.The Sequin Shacknever felt permanent—something we reclaimed more than embraced. On social media, I’ve called itthe tiny houseormy disaster renovation.
“Winslow Cottage,” Owen says, without hesitation.
My breath catches. I saw the name in his notebook weeks ago. But hearing it aloud, hearing it made real, written in ink on county paperwork—it lands differently.
“Winslow Cottage,” the inspector repeats, jotting it down. “Lovely name. Much better than what the town was calling it.”
“The Sequin Shack,” I offer, half-laughing.
“Not exactly official letterhead material,” she replies.
“Well, Penny, you’ve certainly transformed more than the structure,” she adds, stamping the form with finality. “The town’s been watching.”
The name jars me.Penny.It sounds off. Like someone else’s story.
I don’t feel like her anymore. I haven’t for a while.
Somewhere in this house—between demo days and blueprint arguments, between brushed knuckles and soft goodnights—I became Winslow. And not just to him. To myself.
“Thank you,” I manage, taking the stamped paperwork. My hands are less steady than I want them to be.
“As you should be,” she says. “Not everyone would’ve seen past those code violations. That takes a particularkind of vision.”
We leave the municipal building. I’m still chewing on the shift—how a nickname became the truest thing about me.
“You okay?” Owen asks, once we reach his truck. His eyes are sharp, steady. “You got quiet in there.”
“Just thinking,” I say. “It’s official now. Winslow Cottage. A real house with a real name and actual paperwork.”
