My name’s Nolan. I’m 22, and for as long as I can remember, it was just Grandpa Earl and me in that old farmhouse outside Cedar Hollow.
Creaky floors. Radio humming in the kitchen every morning. The smell of coffee that never quite left the walls.
We weren’t rich, but it was our home. The kind of home where every crack in the ceiling told a story, and every squeaky floorboard felt like a greeting.
We weren’t rich, but it was our home.
My parents passed away in a car crash when I was three. Grandpa stepped in without hesitation. He traded his quiet retirement for sleepless nights, scraped knees, and school projects.
He never complained. Not once.My cousin, Marla, was already 16 when it happened. She’d visit maybe twice a year, always in a hurry, always checking her watch.
But the second Grandpa passed away last week, she showed up as if she’d been circling the property for months.
My parents passed away in a car crash when I was three.
She walked into the funeral home, shook hands, and accepted condolences meant for me. Later, after we’d lowered Grandpa into the ground, Marla cornered me by the coffee table at the farmhouse.
“We should sell this place,” she said, stirring sugar into her cup without looking at me.
I blinked. “What?”
“You’re young, Nolan. You’ll figure something out. But this place?” Marla glanced around as if the walls offended her. “It’s falling apart. Winter’s coming. You can’t handle this alone.”