The House of…
Ethan had always been a city man. The hustle, the neon lights, the constant sound of car horns—it was all he had known. But the moment he lost her, the city became unbearable. Every street corner whispered memories of her laughter, every café reminded him of their Sunday mornings together. The air itself felt too heavy with the weight of what once was.
So, he vanished.
He bought a secluded piece of land where no one could find him, where the world was painted in shades of burnt orange and amber. A place where the trees shed their past without hesitation, as if teaching him that letting go is a season, not a sentence.
Building the house was a slow process—deliberate, careful. He wanted every plank, every glass panel, every nail to mean something. This wasn’t just a house; it was a reset. He crafted the deck where he would sit and listen to the wind whisper through the trees. He designed the floor-to-ceiling windows to let the golden autumn light spill into the space, as if inviting warmth back into his life.
At night, he’d sit on the balcony, a glass of whiskey in hand, watching the leaves dance their final waltz to the forest floor. It was the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled. And for the first time in years, he felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.
One evening, as he sat with a book he had tried and failed to read for months, a single leaf floated down onto his page. He traced its fragile veins with his fingers, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Maybe, just maybe, some endings weren’t meant to be mourned.
Maybe, they were just the beginning of a quieter kind of happiness.
