A real estate firm wanted the entire block — demolish the aging homes, replace them with sleek storefronts and parking structures. Ethan still legally owned his old house. Signing the sale would be simple.
Smart. Efficient.
Yet as the car left the city’s shine behind, something tightened in his chest.
The buildings grew shorter. Paint peeled. Sidewalks cracked. Maple Street looked worn but alive — fruit vendors on corners, kids bouncing a deflated basketball, windows patched instead of replaced.
And at the end of the block stood his house.
Smaller than memory. Fence sagging. Weeds reclaiming the yard.
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