“I’m at the house,” I say, my voice coming out smaller than I intended. “Esther, it’s… it’s a lot.”
“Tell me what you see.”
I wander deeper into the house, phone pressed to my ear. “There’s this photo of Walter and June where they look so happy.” My throat tightens. “I never even knew they existed, and now they’re gone, and I’m supposed to just… what? Sell their whole life?”
“You don’t have to decide anything today,” Esther says gently. “Just look around. See what you’re working with.” Esther usually doesn’t have time for kindness, which tells me this is as big a deal as it feels like.
I move through rooms frozen in time—a kitchen with avocado-green appliances, a living room with a couch still wearing its plastic cover, dust motes dancing in the afternoon light streaming through grimy windows. Everything is dated but not destroyed. I mean, there’s a layer of grime everywhere, and I know enough to recognize heaps of mouse poop. But otherwise, it’s like they just… left one day and never came back.
“The house is actually kind of solid,” I tell Esther, running my hand along the banister of a wooden staircase. “Needs a deep clean and some updates, but the bones are good.” My influencer brain is already cataloging the original hardwood floors, the farmhouse sink, and the built-in shelving that could look amazing with the right styling.
“I wonder if Nate would come take a look,” I say. My brother-in-law is a carpenter, but he and my sister Eden are up to their ears with custom beehive supplies and beeswax beauty products. I know this because I manage their marketing.
Esther grunts, and the metallic clang I hear above the static tells me she’s probably changing out a keg at the bar she owns. “What about the actual syrup-making stuff?”
“Haven’t looked yet. Let me go outside.”
I step onto the sagging back porch and immediately understand the word dilapidated. The wood is seriously past its prime. The railing is cracked and leaning, the steps crooked and warped. Beyond the house, a cluster of weathered huts sags at various levels of decay. But behind them, spreading across the hillside, is a forest of maple trees.
“Oh,” I breathe.
“What?”
“Esther, there are so many trees.” I walk forward without thinking, phone still at my ear, drawn toward the grove. “They’re huge. Old. Some of them have, like, taps hanging out of the trunks. All rusty and forgotten…”
The maple grove is dense and wild, sunlight filtering through the branches in golden shafts. It’s beautiful in that Instagram-perfect way, except nobody’s been here to photograph it. Nobody’s been here to care for it at all.
“This could be really something,” I hear myself say. “I mean, it would take a ton of work… Esther, this place could be stunning.”
“Are you thinking about keeping it?”
“What? No. No, I’m just noticing things.” I’m absolutely thinking about keeping it, which is insane. I have a life in Pittsburgh. I have work. I have my sisters. I can’t stay here in the middle of nowhere because some trees are pretty.
Can I?
“Eva, you’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you get all dreamy and start planning before you think it through.”
“I am not—” I stop walking abruptly. Through the trees ahead, I can see the neighbor’s house—the one with the Thorne mailbox. It’s much closer than I expected. Close enough that I can almost see through the windows.
“There’s someone over there,” I tell Esther.
“Well, yeah. People live in Fork Lick. Also, I can barely hear you.”
“Let me try to video call.” I switch to video, holding out the phone and fluffing my hair as I wait for Esther to accept. “Can you see it?”
I gesture around, give her a little twirl to show her the amazing trees and could-be-amazing house.
“I can’t see you, but I can hear you. How isolated are you there? Should I worry?”
“Hm, I don’t think so. Everyone I've met so far has been really nice.” Everyone is basically Lionel and the equally ancient man working the desk at the motel where I booked a room for the night. “Can you see any of the grove I own?” I drift closer to the property line, moving my phone camera through the trees. The Thorne house is tidy and well-maintained, clearly inhabited by someone who knows how to take care of a yard. Solar panels glint on the roof; theirs is a well-kept driveway, and the lawn has beautifully mown grass.
“I should probably introduce myself at some point,” I mutter. “You know, be neighborly. Let them know someone’s finally dealing with this place.”
“See how you’re mentally committing to this?” Esther huffs. “This screams responsibility, Eva. Do not insert yourself among the locals.”
