Owen nods, returning to the very serious business of dog feeding while I retreat to my desk by the window seat. The light has shifted—angled now, gold creeping across the floorboards of this impossible little home we built from disaster and determination.
Filming passes in a blur.Lights, mics, B-roll. Adele Hutchinson’s relentless energy. They capture all the usual things—before-and-afters, interviews, glossy shots of clever design elements. Owen stays true to form: quiet, reserved, but lights up the second someone asks about structural reinforcements or space-saving staircases. I carry the narrative weight, telling the auction story with the same dry humor I’ve honed online.
By the time the crew packs up, the house smells like powder and camera equipment. Owen disappears the second they’re gone, vanishing to the workshop like he’s got a quota to hit before speaking to another person again.
I return to the window seat—still the best spot in the house—and open my postcard box.
It’s bigger now. San Diego. Minneapolis. Chicago. Boston. Portland. L.A. Cards from places I lived in but never belonged to. Proof of a life in motion. Always looking.
I pull out a blank Maple Glen card from Walt’s store (which for some reason stocks tourist gear despite being in a town that no tourist has ever accidentally found). The image on the front is from the Maple Festival—leaves in full color, town square aglow under the canopy.
I stare at the empty space on the back. It feels like a milestone, this one. The first card I’ll add from a place I’m not planning to leave.
Eventually, I write:
Dear Me,
This isn’t the end. This is the foundation. The beginning of building something that lasts—not perfect, but strong enough to weather storms. Turns out home isn’t something you find.It’s something you build, one stubborn beam at a time, with someone who hands you the right tools even when you won’t ask.
Not still looking,
Winslow
I set it on the sill to dry, next to the repaired birdhouse that’s somehow become part of our decor.
The front door creaks open. Finn barrels in first, Owen close behind. He looks more himself again—quiet, calm, shoulders back to their usual unbothered slope.
“Filming survival confirmed,” I announce as he drops into the window seat beside me. “No lasting trauma detected.”
“Debatable,” he mutters. “Adele wants more B-roll in the morning. Something about natural light.”
“Curse of having photogenic windows.” I nod at the postcard. “Started another one.”
He leans in, curious, picking it up with care. His eyes scan the message, and I see something shift behind them—something that says he gets it.
Then he pulls a folded slip of paper from his pocket and hands it to me.
It’s a hand-drawn postcard. He sketched it himself. The front is a perfect rendering of Winslow Cottage—crisp lines, soft shading, somehow architectural and personal all at once.
The back reads:
Dear Me,
I didn’t think I could build anything new. Then she showed up in platform sandals and ruined everything. Thank God.
–O.C.
I look up at him, stunned.
“When did you?—”
“Last night,” he says. “Thought it should be part of the collection.”
I run my thumb along the edge of the card. “It’s perfect.”
We place it beside mine, the two cards angled on the sill—his precise and quiet, mine rambling and too full. It’s exactly us.
The house is still, the golden hour making the floor glow. Finn curls at our feet, tail thumping once before going still.
