Our future.
The house is exactly as I remembered from the photos.
Maybe better.
The landlord—a middle-aged woman named Patty—meets us at the door, all smiles and efficiency.
"You must be Gunnar and Ingrid. So nice to meet you both. Come in, come in."
The space opens up before us.
Open floor plan, just like the listing said.
Kitchen to the right—actual counter space, actual cabinets, a massive stove.
Living room straight ahead—big windows letting in afternoon light, enough room for real furniture.
"Two bedrooms down the hall," Patricia explains. "Master has its own half bath. There's a full bath between the bedrooms. And through those doors—" She gestures to sliding glass doors at the back of the living room. "Your yard."
Ingrid moves through the space like she's already living here.
Running her hands along the countertops.
Opening cabinets.
Testing the faucet.
"The kitchen is perfect," she says. "I could actually cook in here."
"You cook?" Patty asks.
"I'm learning. For the right kitchen."
She catches my eye.
Smiles.
A private joke.
A shared memory.
I smile back, but my heart is pounding.
Soon.
Soon I'm going to ask her.
Soon everything changes.
Patty shows us the bedrooms—both decent-sized, both with good closet space.
The bathrooms—clean, functional, recently updated.
The yard—small but real, with actual grass and a little patio area.
"It's perfect," Ingrid says for the fifth time. "It's absolutely perfect."
"I'm glad you think so." Patty pulls some papers from her folder. "If you're ready, we can do the lease right now. One year term, first month's rent and security deposit due at signing. Since it's vacant, I can give you the keys today."
