Dillion looked around. The bay window. The crooked stairwell. The stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a seahorse. She had grown up in this house. She had learned to ride a bike on the sidewalk out front. She had hidden in the basement closet during a tornado, her dad’s arm wrapped around her, telling her stories until the wind stopped.
“It’s not waiting,” Dillion whispered. “It’s holding its breath.” dillion harper open house
She walked to the For Sale sign. The evening wind was picking up, rattling the gutters. She touched the wooden post, then pulled the sign out of the ground with a soft, wet sigh from the dirt. Dillion looked around
Mrs. Vancamp wasn’t looking at the house. She was standing in the middle of the empty living room, eyes closed. The stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a seahorse
The For Sale sign on Dillion Harper’s front lawn wasn’t just rusted; it looked defeated. The word “SOLD” had been scratched out three times, each attempt a little more desperate than the last. Dillion herself was now leaning against the porch railing, watching a silver minivan crawl to a stop at her curb.
Then she went inside, opened all the windows, and let the house breathe.