A gleaming white Mercedes is pulling into the driveway, absurdly pristine against the cracked pavement.
"I have to go," I tell Sharnia. "The real estate agent just got here."
We say our goodbyes. The call ends.
Outside, a car door slams.
I take a breath, pocket my phone, and step out into the sunlight to greet Missy Hornblood, Saltford Bay's most successful real estate agent.
Missy Hornblood is polished perfection incarnate as she emerges from the white Mercedes like she's stepping onto a red carpet. Tailored cream blazer, pencil skirt, designer heels that click on the cracked driveway as she walks toward me with a smile that belongs on a billboard. Her minotaur horns are adorned with delicate gold rings that catch the light, her sleek brown fur groomed to glossy perfection.
"Noah Mercer?" She extends a manicured hand, her smile practiced but warm. "Missy Hornblood, Hornblood Realty. Pleasure to meet you."
Her handshake is firm, confident.
"Thanks for coming on short notice," I say.
"Not at all. A good real estate agent is always available for her clients." She's already surveying the house with an appraising eye, nodding thoughtfully. "This neighborhood is highly desirable, as you well know. With some staging and minor cosmetic updates, this will move fast."
Her smile is bright and her words should be reassuring. Instead, they feel like a countdown timer I've just started.
I lead her through the house. She takes notes on a tablet as we move from room to room, murmuring observations in a brisk, efficient tone. In the backyard, she pauses by the old oak tree. The rope swing Gramps hung still sways gently in the breeze, the wood worn smooth by decades of small hands.
"This is lovely," Missy says, genuine warmth entering her voice. "Very nostalgic. Buyers with young families will eat this up."
I stare at the swing, and suddenly I'm seven years old again. Gramps is pushing me, his deep laugh rumbling through the summer air, his big hands steady and sure on my back.
Higher, Gramps! Higher!
You got it, kiddo. Hold on tight.
My chest tightens so hard I have to look away.
"Let's head back inside," I say, my voice just a tad hoarse.
Back in the kitchen, Missy settles at the old table, pulling out contracts and staging recommendations. She's speaking, but I'm not really listening. I just nod and grunt whenever she looks up at me from the paperwork.
"So tell me about the property," Missy says, pen poised over her tablet. "How long have you owned it?"
"Since my grandfather passed," I say, leaning against the counter. "About four years ago."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thanks." I push the grief down, lock it away with everything else I'm not letting myself feel right now. "I grew up here. Gramps raised me after my parents died. I always thought I'd come back someday. Settle down. Raise a family here."
Missy lifts her gaze from her paperwork for a moment, then returns her attention to her work. "And now?"
"Now I'm ready to move forward." I straighten, injecting firmness into my voice. "I have a job offer in New York. I'm taking it."
"New York?" She looks impressed. "Wonderful city."
She picks up her pen again, all business. "Well, congratulations, Mr. Mercer."
"I won't be moving until the end of the school year," I tell her. "I have a commitment to finish here first."
"Understood. That gives us plenty of time to stage and market properly. I'll start immediately. With the right pricing and presentation, I can have buyers lining up within a week."
"That fast?" My stomach twists.
