The smell of damp earth and forgotten things clung to the air like a shroud. It was the scent of ‘home,’ but not the home we remembered, or perhaps, not the home that truly *had* existed. Elias had insisted on it, vehemently so, even when my skepticism flared up hot in my chest. ‘Darling,’ he’d said, his voice rough with conviction as we stood on the overgrown lawn of the old Hawthorne place, ‘it has bones. It has soul. We have to bring it back.’
It wasn’t a flashy fixer-upper; no sprawling colonial perfection or modern minimalist marvel. The Victorian was weathered, its gingerbread trim slightly sagging under decades of coastal humidity, its paint peeling in mosaics of faded sage green and dusty rose. It sat hunkered down on the lot like a sleeping beast, guarding secrets behind darkened panes of glass. My initial assessment? A beautiful, crumbling money pit.