On her walk home, Lucy replayed the word storage in her mind. It was a comforting word—practical, boring. People stored trunks, tools, and forgotten furniture. Not intentions, not memories. Still, the sight of the inked‑out rectangle on the original plan floated up again, stubborn as the tapping had been.
The next day, Lucy drove to the town archives with an idea. The clerk, an elderly man with watery eyes, checked the property records. “Listed as built in 1937,” he said, leafing through pages. “Renovated twice. Last major changes were postwar repairs.” When Lucy asked what kind, he only shrugged. “No details filed.”