It's beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with architecture or design and everything to do with intention. With care. With the kind of love that shows up in the details you'd only notice if you knew what you were looking for.
Two stories with a wraparound porch that's clearly been built by hand—I can see the careful craftsmanship in the railings, in the way the boards fit together. Large windows that would let in morning light and make the whole place glow.
And there, along the side of the house, is a garden.
Not just any garden. One that’s growing sunflowers. Rows and rows of them in various stages of growth—some already tall and bright yellow, faces turned toward the sun. Others just beginning to bloom. Some still small and green, just starting their journey upward.
These are the flowers he brings to Jake. Every three days for seven years. He grows them here.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, but I can't look away yet because there's something else. Something about the house that's nagging at the edges of my memory.
The porch wraps all the way around. The windows are tall and numerous, the kind that would make the inside bright no matter what time of day. There's a swing on the left side of the porch, and the front door is painted a deep forest green.
My heart starts pounding harder.
Two stories but not too big. A wraparound porch where you could sit and watch the seasons change. Big windows to let the light in. A garden for growing things. Green accents because green was always my favorite color.
And then it hits me all at once, stealing the air from my lungs.
This is my house.
Notahouse.Myhouse.
The one I described to him when we were kids. The one I said I'd want someday when I was grown up and had my life figured out. A place that felt like home.
"Where you could sit and watch the world go by," I'd said.
He'd been quiet for a long time after I described it, and then he'd said, "What color would you paint the door?"
"Green," I'd answered without hesitation. "Forest green, like the trees up around Eden.”
And he'd smiled in that way that meant he was filing the information away somewhere safe, somewhere he'd remember it forever. I thought it was just conversation. Just two kids dreaming about lives they might never live.
But he remembered.
He remembered every detail.
And he built it.
For three years, he's been building the house I described to him when we were kids. The house I said I'd want to grow old in. The house that represented everything I thought love could be if you were brave enough to believe in it.
He built me my dream house.
My hands are shaking so badly now that I have to press them against my thighs. My vision blurs with tears I can't hold back anymore.
And there, on the porch of the house he built from my fifteen-year-old dreams, painting the railing with patient, careful strokes that speak of someone who has all the time in the world, is Nate.
CHAPTER 47
THE PROMISE OF A PEBBLE
NATE
My hands arerough with sawdust, palms aching in that satisfying way that tells me I've earned the soreness.
The sun is warm on the back of my neck, and somewhere beyond the trees, the lake hums quietly, steady and patient like it's been waiting alongside me all these years.
I like working with my hands.
