“What’s this?” Hamilton demands, finally catching up, slightly out of breath. “Some local landmark we need to preserve?”
Ruby shakes her head, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks… vulnerable. “It’s my grandmother’s cottage. Or was. It’s mine now.”
“Yours?” I repeat, surprised. “This is on the development site.”
“Yes,” she replies, walking toward the building with measured steps.
Prescott bounds ahead, tail wagging furiously as he examines the structure. “This place is incredible! Look at that stonework—that’s craftsmanship. And those beams must be original.”
“They are,” Ruby says, her voice softening. “My grandfather built this place himself. My mother was born here.”
I follow her onto the creaking porch, taking in the craftsmanship with new eyes. As an architect, I can appreciate the attention to detail—the hand-carved railings, the way thecottage seems to grow from the landscape rather than imposing upon it.
“It needs work,” Ruby continues, pushing open the door without a key. It swings inward with a protesting groan. “I haven’t been back here in three years.”
“Why not?” Prescott asks, peering inside with unabashed curiosity.
Ruby throws a pointed look at Hamilton, who has remained at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed defensively. “Too busy fighting certain development companies in the city. No time for maintenance.”
Hamilton has the decency to look uncomfortable, if not quite guilty. He studies the cottage with the calculating gaze I recognize from countless board meetings—assessing value, potential problems, leverage points.
“Don’t even think about it,” I mutter to him, following Ruby inside.
The interior of the cottage is like stepping back in time. Mismatched furniture draped in dust covers, shelves lined with old books and curious objects, and a stone fireplace dominating one wall. Light filters through windows cloudy with dust and spiderwebs, casting dappled patterns across the wooden floor.
“My cousins are the only family I have left,” Ruby explains, trailing her fingers over a bookshelf. “They’re scattered across the Wolfstone land and have their own families now. No one’s been taking care of this place.”
I watch her move through the space, touching objects gently as if they might crumble under too much pressure. Witnessing this moment is intimate, and despite her invitation, I feel like an intruder.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, and mean it. “Different from our city apartments.”
She snorts. “You mean it doesn’t have stainless steel appliances and minimalist furniture? Yeah, my grandmother wasn’t exactly a design influencer.”
“I like it,” Prescott declares, examining a collection of old photographs on the mantel. “Who’s this?”
Ruby joins him, taking the framed photo. “My mother. And that’s my grandmother beside her.” She hesitates, then adds quietly, “Both gone now.”
Hamilton finally enters, ducking his head under the low door frame. He looks ridiculously out of place—his expensive hiking gear and perpetual CEO posture at odds with the rustic, timeworn interior.
“Is this part of your strategy, Wolfhart?” he asks, but the usual edge in his voice has dulled. “Show us the family homestead, tug at our heartstrings?”
Ruby replaces the photograph carefully. “Not everything is a strategy, Hamilton. Sometimes people just want to share something important to them.”
An uncomfortable silence falls, broken only by Prescott excitedly examining a collection of what appears to be handmade wooden toys in a corner trunk.
“There’s more I want to show you,” Ruby says finally. “Come on.”
She leads us out the back door and down a narrow path that winds through dense trees. After about ten minutes of walking, the trees thin, and suddenly we’re standing at the edge of a lake so clear it looks like liquid crystal. The surface mirrors the surrounding trees and sky in perfect reflection, disturbed only by the occasional leap of a fish.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
“Yeah,” Ruby agrees. “Holy shit indeed.”
The development plans flash through my mind—specifically, what we’d designed for this area. The southeastern lakeshorewas slated for luxury waterfront cabins. The northern edge would become a private beach for residents. The water itself would be “enhanced” with decorative fountains and a swimming platform.
Looking at it now, I can see how obscene those plans are. The clarity of the water would be compromised by increased sediment from construction. The peaceful silence would be replaced by the sounds of recreation. The wildlife—the fish jumping, the birds swooping for a drink—would retreat from shifter presence.
Our marketing materials had promised to “improve upon nature.” Now I wonder if there’s anything more arrogant than thinking we could improve on something that’s already perfect.
