A bathroom vent that led nowhere but into the wall. A foundation crack cleverly hidden behind a wardrobe the previous owners had “accidentally” left behind. “This is getting ridiculous,” Daniel muttered one night, sitting on the basement stairs with a flashlight clutched between his teeth. “We can still fix it,” Megan insisted, though her voice lacked its usual pep.
“We’ve done way worse. Remember the farmhouse in Dayton?” “That place didn’t try to fall apart on purpose,” he mumbled. Still, they pushed on. And in time, they won. Every leak fixed. Every crack patched. Every wire replaced. Every odd creak identified and solved to the best of their knowledge. The house finally fell silent, steady, as if giving up its fight.