The house itself was lovely. Pale blue shutters. A sloped roof. Ivy curling up the porch rails. There were weeds in the garden and dust in the corners, but the bones were strong. The inside smelled like cedar and something else—older, earthier. The kind of scent that settles in foundations.
It felt like a good omen. Rose used the insurance payout and a chunk of her retirement fund to buy it. Within weeks, she had repainted the walls, planted herbs by the kitchen window, and strung wind chimes on the back deck. Her grief softened into something quieter. Bearable.