Sally's breakfast is as incredible as King promised: fluffy pancakes with real maple syrup, perfectly crispy bacon, and coffee strong enough to wake the dead. She's a chatty woman in her sixties with kind eyes and flour permanently embedded under her fingernails, and she seems genuinely happy to have a guest.
"Haven't seen many new faces lately," she says, refilling my coffee cup for the third time. "Most folks just pass through on their way to somewhere better."
"My grandmother lived here," I tell her. "Emma Hartwell. She left me her house."
Sally's face lights up with recognition and something that might be relief. "Oh, honey! Emma was a saint. Used to bring me herbs from her garden when my arthritis acted up. That woman could grow anything." Her expression changes, becoming more cautious. "Though I have to say, that house has been... neglected since she passed."
Neglected. That's one way to put it. I've been putting off this moment for three years, ever since the lawyers first contacted me about the inheritance. Three years of legal battles with my mother, who contested the will despite the fact that she hadn't spoken to Grandma Emma in over a decade. Three years of paperwork and court dates and finally, finally getting the keys to what was supposed to be my fresh start.
"I know it needs work," I say. "But I'm hoping it's not too bad."
Sally's smile becomes strained. "Well, Emma always said you could see the potential in anything if you looked hard enough."
Twenty minutes later, standing in front of 1247 Elm Street, I understand exactly what Sally was trying to tell me.
The house isn't just neglected. It's practically a ruin.
The wraparound porch that I remember from childhood visits sags like a broken smile, half the boards rotted through or missing entirely. The white paint has peeled away in long strips, leaving the siding underneath exposed to weather and time. Several windows are boarded up with plywood that's warped and graffitied, and the front steps look like they'd collapse under a strong sneeze.
My heart sinks into my boots. This isn't the charming Victorian cottage I remember from summer visits when I was ten. This is a money pit wrapped in broken dreams and tied with a bow made of property taxes I can't afford.
"Three years," I whisper to the morning air. "It took three years to fight Mom for this, and this is what I get?"
The key turns easily in the front door lock. Apparently it's the only thing that still works properly, but the door itself sticks until I put my shoulder against it. When it finally gives way, I stumble into what used to be Grandma's living room.
The smell hits me first: mold, rot, and the particular staleness that comes from a house that's been closed up too long. Water damage has stained the ceiling in abstract patterns, and something has clearly been living in here. Probably several somethings, judging by the droppings scattered across the warped hardwood floors.
I make my way through the rooms slowly, cataloging the damage. The kitchen faucet has been dripping long enough to wear a groove in the porcelain sink. The bathroom ceiling has partially collapsed. The upstairs bedrooms are a maze of peeling wallpaper and broken plaster.
But underneath all the damage, I can still see traces of the woman who raised me during those precious summer months. The built-in bookshelves where she kept her medical journals and romance novels side by side. The window seat in the front bedroom where she used to sit and watch the street while she told me stories about the people walking by. The herbs she planted in the back garden, now overgrown but still stubbornly pushing up through the weeds.
I'm standing in the kitchen, trying not to cry over the state of Grandma's cast-iron stove, when I hear it.
Footsteps on the porch. Heavy boots that announce their presence without trying to be stealthy.
My heart jumps into my throat, and for a moment I'm back at the bus station with three men circling me like wolves. But then a familiar voice calls out, "Luna? You in there?"
King.
I smooth down my hair and brush dust off my jeans before heading to the front door. When I open it, he's standing on the bottom step, probably the only one that would support his weight, with a white paper bag in one hand and two coffee cups balanced in the other.
In daylight, he's even more intimidating than he was last night. The sun picks out silver threads in his dark hair and emphasizes the hard lines of his face, the kind of bone structure that speaks of Scottish highlands and Viking raids. His leather vest shows off arms covered in tattoos, and there's something about the way he carries himself that screams military training.
But his eyes are gentler than I remember. Still that piercing blue, but warmer somehow, like winter sky touched by sunlight.
"Morning," he says, holding up the bag. "Figured you might be hungry. Sally's breakfast is legendary, but exploring ruins works up an appetite."
"You knew?" I gesture helplessly at the disaster around me. "About the house looking like this?"
"Yes. Emma's been gone three years and houses this old don't handle abandonment well." He pauses. "Especially when the city stops maintaining the water main and there's a leak in the basement."
Of course there's a leak in the basement. Why wouldn't there be?
"Come in," I say, stepping aside. "Though I should warn you, it's pretty depressing in here."
King navigates the rotted porch boards like he's done it before, which makes me wonder how often he checked on this place after Grandma died. The thought that he might have been keeping an eye on my inheritance, protecting it in his own way, it warms me from within.
Inside, he hands me one of the coffee cups and the bag, which turns out to contain two enormous cinnamon rolls that smell like heaven. We stand in what used to be the living room, eating breakfast surrounded by the remnants of my grandmother's life.
