"How'd that go?"
"I got blisters and a lifelong appreciation for grocery stores," she said."But guests loved her tomatoes.They were better than anything you could buy.She'd put them out in a bowl on the front porch with a little handwritten sign that said, 'Take one, leave a story.'"
He glanced at her."Leave a story?"
"She kept a notebook on the porch table," Sabrina said, the memory surfacing with unexpected clarity."Spiral-bound, nothing fancy.People would sit there after breakfast and write whatever came to mind—a memory, a joke, something that happened on their trip.She said the house needed new stories to stay young.That buildings got old and creaky when people stopped telling tales inside them."
He smiled at that, a small curve of his mouth, and something in her chest loosened.
"Imagine this without the house for a second," he said."Not replacing it.Just...editing it out of the picture.What do you see?"
She frowned."Why would I do that?"
"Because right now, every time you look at this property, you see what used to be there."He stopped walking and turned in a slow circle, taking in the field, the trees, the sky overhead, going soft with the late-afternoon light."Try looking at what is here, not what was."
She stood where she was and tried.
Without forcing her gaze to the ruins, she took in the land's slope.The way the tree line curved instead of running straight, creating natural alcoves and sheltered spots.The patch of ground on the left stayed dry in the spring because of its higher elevation.Hidden from the road, mature oaks flattened and dipped the back corner.
Patience seemed to emanate from the land.Like it was waiting for whatever came next without judgment or expectation.
"I see grass that needs mowing," she said.
He huffed."Besides that."
She let her eyes move again, slower this time.Taking in details instead of dismissing them."There's the rise near the trees.The evening light hits it really nicely—turns everything gold for about twenty minutes before sunset.That's where my grandfather built the little bench for my grandmother when they first bought the place.He proposed to her there, actually.Before they even started on the foundation."
"Okay," Colby said."That's one thing."
"The clearing over there," she added, nodding to the left."We used it for overflow parking during festivals and big events.It never floods, even in heavy rain.There's a natural drainage line just past it that carries water away toward the back of the property."
"Two things," he said."You've also got distance from the road, privacy from neighbors on three sides, and access to the trail that runs behind the property toward the state park."
She blinked."How do you know about the trail?"
"I've run it."He shrugged one shoulder."Firehouse guys use it for training sometimes when we want terrain instead of pavement.It's quiet.Good hills.Connects to about six miles of marked paths if you keep going."
She pictured him running those familiar paths, sweat darkening his shirt, focus locked in, breath steady and controlled.The thought unsettled her stomach in a way she didn't want to analyze.
"Point is," he said, "you have more than a pile of ash.You have ground that people want for a reason.Good reasons."
"So they can pave it," she said.
"So they can build something," he corrected."You don't have to like what they want to build.But it tells you something about what you have.About what's possible here."
She shoved her hands into her pockets, fingers brushing the folded tissue she'd forgotten there from this morning."What good does it do me if I don't intend to sell?"
"Who said you have to sell?"he asked."You could build something here yourself."
She let out a short, humorless sound."With what money?Kara saw a windfall.I see liability and a bonfire."
He didn't argue.He just looked at her, steady and patient, like he could wait out the layer of sarcasm and defensiveness until she ran out of it.
She turned in a slow circle, taking in the full sweep of the property again.For the first time since the fire, her mind didn't go immediately to loss.
It went...blank.
Blank in a way that felt like a clean page before the first stroke of ink.Like possibility instead of emptiness.
