In the handwriting of a ten-year-old me:
Dear Future Me,
I hope you found somewhere that feels like yours. Still looking.
– P
I trace the lines of the script with my thumb, a lump rising in my throat. Twenty-one years later, and I’m still looking. Still sending myself messages from places I never fully belong.
Through the windshield, Owen stands at what technically counts as my front lawn, hands on his hips, staring at the house like it’s personally offended him. Even from here, I can read the verdict in his posture:disaster.
Then he turns. And for one strange second, our eyes meet through the rain-blurred glass.
I don’t know what he sees—a city girl in over her head? A walking bad decision in platform sandals? I look away first, sliding the postcard back into the box like I’m hiding a secret.
A moment later, Owen approaches the car. I roll down the window, forcing my face into something vaguely competent, like I’m someone whoowns propertyand not someone on the verge of Googlinghow to un-ruin your life in under 30 days.
“I’ll email you a detailed assessment,” he says, rain dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. “But the shortversion? Foundation needs complete rebuild. Roof’s a total loss. Electrical would burn the place down if you tried to flip a switch.”
“Sounds cozy,” I say, dryly. Humor is all I have left.
Something flickers at the corner of his mouth—almost a smile. But it vanishes so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
“I can start drawing up plans next week,” he adds. “In the meantime, don’t stay here. It’s not safe.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I say, motioning to the car full of luggage. “I’ve got a room at Marge’s B&B in town.”
He nods, clearly relieved I’m not planning to sleep in a structure one stiff breeze away from collapsing.
“I’ll be in touch,” he says, then hesitates. “For what it’s worth... the land’s good. Nice view when it’s not raining. Private, but not too isolated.”
It’s such a small thing—such a minor, throwaway comfort—but I grab onto it like a lifeline.
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it. “I’ll look forward to your email.”
He nods once, then turns and walks back to his truck, all long strides and quiet confidence—someone who knows exactly who he is, and exactly where he belongs.
I watch him drive away, mud spraying from his tires, until the truck disappears around the bend.
Silence returns, broken only by the steady patter of rain on the car roof.
I look back at my tiny disaster house.
In LA, I could spin this. I could call it ablank canvasor ahidden gemor whatever bullshit phrase makes people feel okay about making irreversible mistakes.
I could even convince myself to believe it.
But here, with rain seeping into my shoes and my life savings sunk into rotting beams and a busted waterline—I can’t summon the energy to lie to myself anymore.
I start the car. The postcard box sits beside me in the passenger seat like a quiet witness.
As I back down the muddy driveway, I glance once more inthe rearview mirror. The house is barely visible now through the rain and the rising dusk.
I came to Maple Glen looking for a fresh start.
What I got was a collapsing roof, a contractor who clearly thinks I’m unhinged, and the terrifying realization that—for once—I might not be able to pack up and leave when things get hard.
This time, I might have to stay.
