The Approach

Maya pressed her face closer to the passenger window, watching house numbers climb as Jake navigated the tree-lined street. "Slow down, it should be right around here," she said, consulting the real estate app on her phone for the third time in two minutes.

"I'm going fifteen in a residential zone," Jake replied, but he eased off the accelerator anyway. "Are you sure this is the right street? These houses look way too nice for what we can afford."

The neighborhood did look expensive. Mature oak trees formed a canopy overhead, their October leaves creating a golden tunnel of light and shadow. Front yards were meticulously maintained, with tasteful Halloween decorations and luxury cars in driveways. Maya felt a familiar knot of anxiety in her stomach as she calculated mortgage payments again in her head.

"The listing says 1247 Maple Street, and look," she pointed ahead, "there's 1243. So it's got to be..." Her voice trailed off as they approached the next house.

1247 Maple Street sat back from the road, partially hidden behind an overgrown hedge. Where the neighboring houses boasted fresh paint and manicured lawns, this Victorian home looked tired. Not abandoned, but like an elderly person who had stopped bothering with appearances and had become shoddy around the edges. The wraparound porch sagged slightly, and several shutters hung at odd angles.

"That's it?" Jake asked, pulling to the curb.

Maya double-checked her phone. "That's it. The photos online were definitely taken from the most flattering angles."

They sat in the car for a moment, both taking in their first real look at the house they'd been excited about for weeks. It was bigger than anything else in their price range, with the kind of character that new construction lacked. But up close, the needed repairs were obvious.

"The bones are good," Jake said finally. "Look at that craftsmanship. They don't build houses like this anymore."

"The bones are expensive to fix, and listing price doesn’t mean anything in this market with people putting in crazy bids," Maya replied, but she was already unbuckling her seatbelt. Despite her practical concerns, she was excited about the house. As she stepped out of the car, she reflected on how much she disliked the ever present mist that always seemed about to turn into the rain that personified Portland.  She mentally grumped for the thousandth time that she wished it would make up its damn mind.

As they walked up the front path, Maya shivered and pulled her cardigan tighter. The temperature seemed to drop with each step toward the house.  She looked around to see if she’d stepped under shade from the trees, but she was still fully exposed to what passed as sun in this weather.

The front porch groaned under their weight, wooden boards flexing more than seemed normal. Jake tested the railing, which felt solid despite its weathered appearance. "Nothing a little maintenance won't fix," he said, running his hand along the ornate gingerbread trim. "This is all original millwork. Do you know how much this would cost to replicate?"

Maya wasn't listening. She was staring up at the second-story windows, which seemed to be watching them. The afternoon sun created strange reflections in the glass, patterns that looked almost like faces. She blinked hard and the illusion vanished, leaving just ordinary windows with lace curtains behind them.

"How long has this been on the market?" Jake asked, pulling out his own phone to check the listing details.

"Eight months," Maya replied. "Which is weird, right? I mean, look at this neighborhood. Everything else probably sells as soon as it lists."

"Maybe it's overpriced."

"That's what I thought, but I looked at the comps. It's actually below market value for the square footage and lot size." Maya consulted her notes app, where she'd compiled detailed research on the property. "The listing agent has dropped the price twice since March. And look at this..." She showed Jake her phone screen. "The previous listing was terminated after six months, then it came back on the market with a different agent."

"Huh." Jake studied the information. "That's either really good news for us, or really bad news in general."

A car door slammed behind them, and they turned to see a woman approaching with a bright smile and an armload of paperwork. She wore a burgundy blazer with a name tag that read "Brenda Kowalski, Realtor" and walked with a determined stride.

"You must be Maya and Jake!" she called out while still twenty feet away. "I'm so excited to show you this gorgeous home. You're going to absolutely love it."

Maya and Jake exchanged a look. In their limited experience with real estate agents, this level of enthusiasm usually meant desperation. But then again, they were desperate too. First time homebuyers in their price range couldn't afford to be picky.

As Brenda approached, Maya noticed that the woman's smile seemed painted on, bright but somehow hollow. She was probably in her fifties, with perfectly styled hair and makeup that looked like armor against the world. Everything about her screamed professional competence, but her eyes darted nervously between Maya, Jake, and the house itself.

"I hope you're ready to fall in love," Brenda said, fishing keys from her purse. "This house has been waiting for the right buyers, and I have a feeling that's you two."

Exterior

The Victorian rose three stories into the fall Portland sky, its steep gabled roof and decorative trim speaking to an era when houses were built to last centuries. Maya counted at least a dozen windows across the front facade, each framed with original wooden shutters in varying states of repair.

"It was built in 1892," Brenda announced, consulting her listing sheet. "That makes it one of the oldest homes in the neighborhood, and definitely the most architecturally significant."

Jake circled slowly around the front yard. "Look at the southern exposure," he said to Maya, pointing to the roof line. "Perfect for solar panels… well, except these mature trees will block the sun.  But they’ll keep it cool in summer but let light through in winter when they lose their leaves."

Maya tried to see the house through his eyes, focusing on potential rather than problems. The wraparound porch, once painted white, had faded to a soft gray that might have been charming if it had looked intentional. Gingerbread trim dripped from the eaves like frozen lace, intricate and hand-carved. The bay windows on the first floor bulged outward like curious eyes, their leaded glass catching and fracturing the afternoon light.

"The garden is big too," she said, walking toward what had once been carefully planned flower beds on the side of the house. Overgrown wild roses climbed trellises attached to the porch posts, their late-season blooms struggling through tangles of untrimmed growth. "I could definitely work with this. Maybe some native plants, sustainable landscaping."

"See? You're both already envisioning your life here," Brenda said with obvious satisfaction. "That's exactly what I hoped would happen."

Something in her tone made Maya glance at the realtor more carefully. There was relief in Brenda's voice, as if showing the house to people who responded positively was a rare occurrence. Maya filed that observation away with her other concerns about the extended time on market and multiple price reductions.

The front door was solid oak with an oval window of beveled glass, flanked by narrow sidelights that would let morning sun into the entry hall. The doorknob was original brass, worn smooth by decades of hands, and the threshold showed the gentle depression of countless footsteps crossing into the house.

"How many owners has it had?" Jake asked, running his hand along the porch railing.

"We only have records for one family," Brenda replied. "The Morrisons bought it in 1948 and lived here until they passed. Nearly fifty years in the same house. You don't see that kind of commitment anymore.  The records are murky before that; the greatest generation won World War II but they weren’t great at keeping records."  The realtor laughed loudly as Jake and Maya rolled their eyes in tandem.

Maya felt a pang of something she couldn't quite identify. Longing, maybe, or nostalgia for a kind of stability she'd never experienced. Her parents had moved frequently when she was growing up, following her father's restaurant opportunities from city to city. The idea of staying in one place for fifty years appealed to her more than she'd expected.

"When did they pass?" she asked.

"Oh, mid-nineties sometime. The estate has been handling the property since then, but they finally decided to sell." Brenda's answer was casual, but Maya noticed she didn't meet their eyes while delivering it.

Jake had moved to examine the foundation, which was visible where the porch didn't extend. "Stone foundation looks solid. No obvious cracks or settling issues." He crouched down to peer at the basement windows. "Good ventilation down there too."

As he spoke, Maya found herself staring up at the second-story windows again. The lace curtains behind the glass stirred slightly, as if moved by a breeze, though she felt no wind at street level. For just a moment, she could have sworn she saw a shadow pass behind one of the windows, but when she focused her attention, everything was still.

"The house has been empty all this time?" she asked Brenda.

"Well, yes and no. The estate has had it maintained, obviously. Regular cleaning service, lawn care, handyman, that sort of thing. They leased it as a Vrbo for awhile and hosted some special events here.  But no one's actually lived here full time since the Morrisons." Brenda jangled her keys impatiently. "Should we head inside? I think you'll be amazed by the interior space."

Maya took one last look at the house from the outside, trying to memorize this moment.  On a last minute impulse, she backed up and pulled out her iPhone to snap a picture. If they bought it, this would be the "before" picture she'd show people years from now when telling the story of how they'd transformed the old Victorian. The house seemed to gaze back at her with its many windows; silent, patient and watchful.

The afternoon sun chose that moment to slip behind a cloud, and the temperature dropped noticeably. Maya pulled her cardigan closer and noticed that Jake had straightened up from his foundation inspection, also seeming to feel the sudden chill.

"Fall weather," Brenda said cheerfully, though Maya noticed the realtor had also wrapped her arms around herself. "Nothing like a cozy old house to keep you warm. Shall we?"

Brenda Kowalski, Realtor

"I think you'll be amazed by the interior space," Brenda had said, but as she fumbled through her oversized purse for the keys.  "I have to tell you, when I got your call about wanting to see this property, I was just thrilled. You two are exactly the kind of buyers this house needs. Young professionals with vision. People who can see past a little cosmetic work to the incredible potential underneath."

"A little cosmetic work?" Maya raised an eyebrow, gesturing toward the peeling paint and crooked shutters.

"Well, you know how it is with these older homes," Brenda laughed, with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "They have such character. Such personality. Some buyers find them too... atmospheric, but I can tell you two appreciate authenticity. Real character is so hard to find these days."

Jake and Maya exchanged a glance.  "How long did you say it's been on the market?" Maya asked, pulling up the listing on her phone again.

"Oh, well, let's see..." Brenda consulted her paperwork with the careful attention of someone buying time. "The current listing has been active since March. But you know how it is in this market. Buyers can be so picky. Everyone wants move-in ready these days. No one appreciates the romance of a project anymore."

"Eight months is a pretty long time for this neighborhood," Jake observed. "Especially at this price point.  And the decades before that?  There must be a reason it’s been empty so long."

"You're absolutely right to notice that," Brenda said, her smile becoming slightly strained. "The truth is, this house is very particular about its buyers. It needs people who really understand what they're looking at.  Frank and Eleanor Morrison were pillars of the community. He was a veteran, she ran a successful business. They loved this house, and it loved them back. Houses like this, they're not just buildings. They're homes. They choose their families as much as families choose them."

Maya felt a chill. "Choose their families?"

"Oh, you know what I mean," Brenda emitted another forced laugh. "Some houses just have that special feeling. You'll see what I mean once we walk through the floorplan. You'll know if this is meant to be your home."

She finally located the correct key and held it up triumphantly. "And between you and me, the estate is very motivated to sell. They've been handling the property since the Morrisons passed, and they're ready to see it go to people who will love it the way it deserves to be loved."

"How did they pass?  Was it… in the house?" Jake asked, feeling as though he might now understand the house’s price and long lack of tenancy.

Brenda's pause lasted just a beat too long. "Oh, no, no! Car accident, very sad.  Route 30 right by the Willamette River."

She shook her head as if dismissing the tragedy, then brightened again with obvious effort. "But that's ancient history! What matters now is finding this beautiful home a new family. And I have such a good feeling about you two. You're perfect for this house. A realtor can always tell. Now, I should mention that houses this age have their little quirks," she called over her shoulder. "The thermostat can be temperamental, and sometimes doors don't quite stay where you put them. Old houses settle, you know. They're like people that way. They have their moods."

She paused at the front door, key in hand, and turned back to them with a smile that seemed almost relieved. "But I promise you, once you see the interior, you'll understand why this house has been worth the wait."

Main Floor

The front door opened with a satisfying weight. Brenda stepped aside with a theatrical flourish, gesturing for Maya and Jake to enter first. "Welcome to your new home," she said, her voice echoing slightly in the entry hall.

The living room opened up before them, spacious and filled with the kind of natural light that made Maya's heart skip. Hardwood floors stretched across the room, their honey-colored planks worn smooth by decades of use but still beautiful. Two bay windows dominated the front wall, their deep sills perfect for plants or reading nooks. Built-in bookshelves flanked a brick fireplace, their empty shelves waiting to be filled with life again.

"This is gorgeous," Maya breathed, already mentally arranging their furniture. The couch would go there, facing the fireplace. Jake's reading chair by the window where he could catch the morning light. Maybe a small table between the bay windows for coffee and newspapers.

Jake was examining the crown molding that ran around the high ceiling, running his fingers along the intricate woodwork. "Look at this detail."

"The Morrisons really took care of the place," Brenda said, though Maya noticed her voice carried an odd note of uncertainty. 

The afternoon light streaming through the bay windows cast long shadows across the floor, and Maya found herself stepping out of one that seemed particularly dark and cold. Strange how the shadows felt so much deeper than they should, as if the light couldn't quite reach into all the corners of the room.

"Let's move into the dining room," Brenda suggested, leading them through an arched doorway.

The formal dining room retained its original elegance, with wainscoting halfway up the walls and a crystal chandelier hanging from a decorative ceiling medallion. Maya could picture holiday dinners here, entertaining friends, the kind of grown-up life she and Jake were building together.

Jake looked up at the chandelier and frowned. The crystal fixture was swaying gently, its faceted pieces catching the light as they moved. "Why is that moving?"  

"Oh, that," Brenda said quickly. "It just needs rewiring. These old electrical systems, you know how they are. Little vibrations from traffic, settling foundation, that sort of thing. Nothing a good electrician can't fix."

Maya felt a brief wave of dizziness as she stood beneath the swaying chandelier, but she shook it off. Probably just the excitement of seeing the house. She grabbed Jake's arm for a moment until the feeling passed.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Fine, just a little lightheaded.I forgot to eat today."  She pulled a small pack of almonds out of her purse and opened them, first offering them to Jake.

They moved through to the kitchen, which showed its 1980s renovation in the oak cabinets and linoleum flooring. Not Maya's style, but she could work with the layout. The large window over the sink looked out into the backyard, offering a view of the overgrown garden and mature fruit trees.  Apples that should have been picked weeks ago were beginning to decay on the branches, with years of the rotted fruit making up the fertile upper layer of the soil.

"I love this window," Maya said, leaning against the counter. "I could put herbs on the sill, maybe some hanging plants. And this whole wall could come out to open up the space to the dining room. Create a real flow for entertaining."

As she talked, gesturing enthusiastically about her renovation plans, a single drop of water fell from the faucet into the sink with a sharp ping. Maya glanced at it, puzzled. She could have sworn the faucet had been completely dry when they'd first entered the kitchen.

"The plumbing is all updated," Brenda said quickly, as if she'd noticed Maya's confusion. "Just occasional drips. Old houses, you know how it is."

Jake was examining the electrical panel in a small alcove off the kitchen. "This looks like it was done right. Good amperage for a house this age."

Behind them, Maya heard what sounded almost like footsteps on the hardwood floors, a rhythmic creaking that seemed to follow their path through the house. But when she turned to look, there was no one there except Brenda, who was consulting her listing sheet and not moving.

"There's a small office just through here," Brenda said, leading them into a cozy room at the back of the house. "Perfect for a home workspace."

Maya’s eyes lit up immediately. Built-in desk and filing cabinets lined one wall, with a large window providing natural light. "This is exactly what I need. I could set up my computer here, spread out my research materials."

She wandered over to the built-in desk, running her hand along its polished surface. The filing cabinets still contained some items from the previous owners: manila folders, old pens, the detritus of a long life lived in this house. In the shallow center drawer, her fingers found something small and rectangular.

She pulled out a black and white photograph, slightly yellowed with age. A young man in a Navy uniform stood with his arm around a beautiful woman in a 1940s dress, her light hair catching the studio lighting in soft waves. They were both smiling with the radiant happiness of people utterly in love with each other and with life itself.

"Oh, that's Frank and Eleanor Morrison," Brenda said casually when Maya held up the photograph. "Don’t they look happy?"

Maya studied the photograph more closely. Eleanor's hair was full and wavy and lush, and her smile was luminous. Frank looked handsome and proud in his uniform, his arm protectively around his wife. They looked like they had their whole lives ahead of them, ready to take on the world.

"They look so happy," Maya murmured.

"Don’t they?" Brenda replied, and something in her tone made Maya look up. But the realtor had already turned away, heading back toward the main part of the house.

As they followed Brenda out of the office, Maya noticed that the door to the living room, which had been open when they'd entered, was now closed. Jake seemed to notice it too, reaching out to turn the handle with a slightly puzzled expression.

Behind them, the floorboards creaked in a steady rhythm, but when Maya glanced back, the hallway was empty. Just old wood settling, she told herself, though the sound seemed to follow them as they moved through the house.

From somewhere in the distance, Jake could have sworn he heard music playing. Something with horns and a big band sound, the kind of music his grandparents used to play. But when he paused to listen more carefully, there was only silence.

"Did you hear that?" he asked Maya.

"Hear what?"

"Music. Like... old-fashioned music."

Maya and Brenda both looked at him blankly.

"I don't hear anything," Brenda said. "Though these old houses do have wonderful acoustics. Sound carries in interesting ways."

Jake shook his head, feeling slightly foolish. It must have been a neighbor's radio. But for a moment, it had sounded so clear, so close, as if it were coming from inside the house itself.

Upper Floors

The staircase to the second floor was original to the house, its banister worn smooth by countless hands over more than a century. The steps creaked pleasantly under their feet, each one announcing their presence with a different pitch, like an old wooden xylophone.

"The master bedroom is just at the top of the stairs," Brenda said, leading them down a hallway that bore the remnants of photo frames that had hung on the walls for decades.  Where the frames had been the wallpaper was brighter in outlines of rectangles, squares, and ovals.

The master bedroom took Maya's breath away. Large windows on two walls filled the space with soft afternoon light, and an original fireplace dominated one wall with its carved wooden mantelpiece. The room felt different from the rest of the house, warmer somehow, more welcoming. Maya could picture their bed positioned to catch the morning sun, Jake's dresser by the window, their clothes hanging in the closet.

Jake caught her eye and smiled, clearly thinking the same thing. This was their room. She could feel it in the way the light fell across the hardwood floors, in the way the space seemed to embrace them. Of all the rooms they'd seen, this one felt like home.

"Beautiful light," Jake said, walking to the windows that looked out over the backyard. "We'd wake up with the sunrise."

"Perfect for reading in bed on Sunday mornings," Maya added, already envisioning lazy weekends in this room.

Brenda watched them with obvious satisfaction. "I can tell you love it.”

The second bedroom was smaller but still spacious, with a single large window overlooking the side yard. It contained more remnants of the previous owners: a few pieces of furniture, boxes of books, the accumulated possessions of people who had lived here for decades.

Jake wandered over to examine a stack of National Geographic magazines on a built-in shelf. "Look at these dates," he said, flipping through them. "1960s, '70s, '80s. They saved everything."

Maya found the evidence of long habitation oddly touching.  

The bathroom retained its vintage charm with a clawfoot tub and pedestal sink, though the fixtures clearly needed updating. Maya opened the medicine cabinet out of curiosity and found it still contained forgotten items: old prescription bottles with faded labels, reading glasses in various strengths, a tube of lipstick dried to powder.  She wiped her hand along the bottom lip of the cabinet and came away with what looked like cigarette ash.

"Sorry about that," Brenda said quickly. "The estate cleaning service must have missed a few things. We'll have everything cleared out before closing, of course."

But Maya didn't mind. These small remnants made the house feel lived-in rather than abandoned, as if the Morrisons had simply stepped out for an errand and might return at any moment.

"Should we see the attic?" Brenda asked, with a slight hesitation in her voice.  Maya nodded, she wanted to see every inch of what might be their new home.

The staircase to the attic was narrower and steeper, with a handrail that felt less sturdy than the main stairs. At the top, Brenda fumbled for a light switch, flooding the space with harsh overhead lighting that cast sharp shadows between the rafters.

The attic was partially finished, with plywood flooring and drywall on some walls, but it felt unfinished in a different way. Dusty and dim despite the electric lights, filled with boxes and furniture covered in white sheets like ghosts waiting to be awakened. The air felt stale and somehow heavy, as if it hadn't been disturbed in years.

"Additional storage," Brenda said briskly, "or it could be finished as extra living space. Playroom, maybe, if you decide to have children."

Maya felt an unexpected chill and found herself stepping closer to Jake. She couldn't say why, but she didn't want to linger in this space. Something about it felt wrong, unwelcoming in a way that had nothing to do with the dust or poor lighting.

Jake seemed to feel it too. He glanced around perfunctorily, not bothering to examine the space with the same interest he'd shown the rest of the house. "Plenty of storage," he said diplomatically.

"Exactly. Well, shall we head back downstairs?" Brenda was already moving toward the stairs, clearly as eager to leave the attic as Maya and Jake were.

As they descended back to the second floor, Maya felt relief wash over her. The rest of the house had felt welcoming, full of potential and possibility. But the attic felt like a place where things were hidden rather than stored, where the past gathered dust and lay in wait for the unsuspecting future.

As Maya’s foot moved from the bottom rung of the ladder to the floor, a sound came from the attic.  It sounded like a cough.  

"The basement is the last stop on our tour," Brenda announced, louder than necessary. "I think you'll be impressed with the infrastructure down there."

The Basement

The basement stairs were steep and wooden, with a simple handrail that felt solid under their grip. Brenda flicked on the lights as they descended, revealing a space that was clearly much older than the updates visible throughout the rest of the house.

"Now this is what I call good bones," Jake said appreciatively as they reached the bottom. The foundation was original stone, massive blocks fitted together with the kind of craftsmanship that had kept the house standing for over a century. "This foundation will outlast us all."

The electrical panel mounted on one wall was clearly newer, with modern circuit breakers and proper labeling. Jake examined it with the attention of someone who'd learned to check these details the hard way. He nodded, professionally.

"All the infrastructure has been maintained beautifully," Brenda said, gesturing toward a newer furnace that hummed quietly in one corner. "The Morrisons really took care of this place."

Maya wandered through the basement, noting how it had been organized into different areas. Built into stone alcoves along one wall were wine racks, with a few bottles still remaining, covered in decades of dust. "They were serious collectors," she observed, reading labels on bottles that dated back to the 1960s.

As Maya moved deeper into the basement, she noticed that one section felt noticeably colder than the rest. The temperature drop was dramatic enough that she pulled her cardigan tighter and rubbed her arms. She couldn't see any obvious reason for the difference, no external walls or vents that might explain the chill.

"Is there something wrong with the heating in this area?" she asked.

"Oh, that's just how old basements are, there’s no heating," Brenda replied quickly. "Stone foundations, you know. Some areas stay cooler than others. Actually quite nice in the summer.  The perfect temperature for aging wine!"

Jake had moved to examine what looked like water stains on the floor in the far corner, dark marks that suggested moisture had been an issue at some point. "Looks like there might have been some water problems?"

"Minor moisture issue, really just some seeping," Brenda said dismissively. "Completely fixed now. The previous owners had it professionally waterproofed years ago. You know how Portland basements can be with all our rain."

But as Jake studied the stone wall more closely, he noticed what looked like scratch marks gouged into the mortar between the stones. They were too regular to be accidental damage, too deep to be from normal wear. They looked almost like claw marks, as if something had been trying to get out. Or in. He ran his fingers over them briefly but decided not to mention it. Old houses accumulated all kinds of mysterious marks over the decades.

Maya was beginning to feel uncomfortably closed in. The basement ceiling wasn't particularly low, but something about the space was making her feel claustrophobic in a way that basements usually didn't. The stone walls seemed to press inward, and the air felt thick and hard to breathe.

"I think I want to go back upstairs," she said suddenly, heading for the stairs without waiting for a response.

"Of course," Brenda said, following quickly. "Basements aren't for everyone. Some people are just sensitive to being underground."

Jake took one last look around, noting the solid construction and good maintenance, and felt immediately at peace in the basement. As they climbed the stairs, he could have sworn he heard something behind them, a sound like footsteps on the stone floor. But when he glanced back, the space was empty and silent.

"Well," Brenda said as they emerged into the kitchen, "that's the full tour. What do you think?"

Maya took a deep breath of the warmer air, feeling better now that she was out of the basement's confines. 

Backyard and Decision

The back door from the kitchen opened onto a wide deck that overlooked the most generous yard Maya had seen in their price range. Mature fruit trees dotted the space, their branches heavy with late-season apples and pears, some of which had fallen to create a fragrant carpet beneath. What had once been a carefully planned vegetable garden with evidence of ambitious planting, now gone wild with volunteer tomatoes and overgrown herbs.

"This is incredible," Maya breathed, stepping down into the yard. "Look at all this space. We could have people over for barbecues, maybe put in a fire pit over there by those trees."

Jake was already examining the fruit trees with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been apartment living too long. "These are heritage varieties, look at the size of these apples. And there's plenty of room for composting, maybe raised beds for vegetables. Oh, a chicken coop! We could be practically self-sufficient back here."

The yard felt private despite being in the city, enclosed by mature hedges and the neighboring houses set back far enough to provide real privacy. Maya could picture summer evenings here, Jake reading in a hammock between the trees while she tended to plants, friends gathered around a table for dinner as the Portland twilight stretched long into the evening.

"Looks like someone’s green thumb is twitching!” Brenda enthused.

Brenda's phone buzzed insistently, and she glanced at it with obvious irritation. "I'm so sorry, I need to take this call. Would you mind if I stepped away for just a moment? Feel free to look around, get a sense of the space."

She walked toward the front of the house, leaving Maya and Jake alone in the backyard for the first time since they'd arrived.

"So," Jake said, settling onto the deck steps. "What do you think?"

Maya sat beside him, looking out over the yard and back at the house that rose above them, its many windows reflecting the late afternoon light. "I love it," she said honestly. "I know it needs work, but look at what we'd be getting. The space, the character, this neighborhood. And the price is actually reasonable, all things considered."

"The infrastructure is solid," Jake agreed. "Foundation, electrical, plumbing, all in good shape. The cosmetic stuff we can handle ourselves over time. New paint, refinish the floors, maybe update the kitchen gradually."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both imagining their future in this space.

"It has been on the market for a while though," Maya said finally. "Eight months is a long time. And it’s been sitting empty for decades.  Makes me wonder if there's something we're missing."

"Maybe people just can't see past the surface stuff," Jake suggested. "Or maybe the price was too high initially. Brenda said they've reduced it twice."

Maya nodded, but found herself thinking about the small strange moments during their tour. The swaying chandelier, the closed doors, her dizziness in the dining room, that oppressive feeling in the basement. None of it was anything she could point to as a real problem, but taken together, it created a vague sense of unease she couldn't quite shake.

"Did anything feel... off to you?" she asked carefully. "About the house, I mean."

Jake considered the question seriously. He thought about the music he'd heard that no one else noticed, the scratch marks in the basement, the way certain rooms felt colder than others. "Maybe a little," he admitted. "Old houses have their quirks though. Settling, drafts, weird acoustics. Nothing that seemed like a real problem."

"Right," Maya agreed, letting herself be convinced despite her misgivings. "Just old house things."

"I think we should make an offer," Jake said finally.

Maya felt a flutter of excitement mixed with nervousness. "Really? You think this is it?"

"I think this is our future," he said, taking her hand. "Our home. The place where we'll figure out how to be adults together. Where we'll have friends over for dinner and maybe kids running around that backyard someday."

Maya squeezed his hand, feeling the weight of the decision and the thrill of possibility. Despite her minor reservations, she could see their life here clearly. This house wanted to be loved again, wanted to be filled with life and laughter and the comfortable chaos of people building a future together.

"Let's do it," she said.

Paperwork and Commitment

Back inside the kitchen, Brenda spread the initial paperwork across the built-in breakfast nook table, her relief evident in every gesture. Maya and Jake sat close together, reading through offer forms and disclosure documents while Brenda explained the process with renewed energy.

"The estate will be so pleased," she said, organizing forms with efficient movements. "They've been hoping for buyers who really understand what this house has to offer."

As Maya signed her name to document after document, her eyes kept drifting to the photograph of Frank and Eleanor that she'd left on the counter. They looked so radiantly happy, so completely in love and full of hope for their future together. It was exactly how she felt right now, sitting beside Jake and committing to their first home, their first real step into building a life together.

On impulse, she slipped the photograph into her purse when Brenda wasn't looking. It seemed wrong to leave it behind in an empty house. She'd frame it and put it somewhere special, a tribute to the couple who had loved this house for fifty years and a reminder of the kind of lasting happiness she and Jake were working toward.

"You two are just perfect for this house," Brenda said as they finished the last signatures. There was something in her tone that Maya couldn't quite identify, a weight of meaning that seemed to go beyond normal realtor enthusiasm. "Absolutely perfect."

Jake squeezed Maya's hand under the table, and she felt a flutter of pure excitement. Despite all her careful planning and endless research, this decision felt right in a way that transcended spreadsheets and pros-and-cons lists. This was their house. Their future.

"I haven't felt this excited about anything in months," Jake admitted as they gathered their copies of the paperwork. "It feels like we're finally moving forward instead of just talking about it."

Maya knew exactly what he meant. They'd been looking for over a year, saving money and browsing listings, but it had all felt theoretical until now. This house represented the life they'd been building toward, the commitment they were ready to make to each other and to Portland.

As they walked back to their car, both turned for one final look at the house that might soon be theirs. The late afternoon sun was hitting the upstairs windows at an angle that made them glow like warm amber. For just a moment, Maya could have sworn she saw two figures in the master bedroom window.  As she stared, one of the figures blinked.

Her heart skipped a beat , then she blinked and looked again, but the windows showed only empty rooms and lace curtains. Probably just a trick of the light, shadows and reflections creating the illusion of presence in an empty house. But something about the moment felt like a blessing, as if the house itself was approving of their decision to make it their home.