“What are you doing?”
“I’m not painting over these.”
“You don’t have to keep them.”
“I know.”
I looked at the names and dates covering the wall.
“But some things deserve to stay exactly where they are.”
Chase nodded slowly.
Then we stood together in that old garage, looking at the pencil marks his family had left behind.
Technically, the house belonged to me now.
The garage belonged to me.
The lawn he’d been mowing every Saturday belonged to me.
But standing there beside Chase, I finally understood something.
He had never been coming back because he wanted my property.
He hadn’t been trying to steal anything.
He had simply been searching for proof that the happiest part of his childhood still existed somewhere.
A workbench built by his grandfather.
A concrete floor where he’d learned to ride a bicycle.
A wall that still remembered how tall he’d been at eight, ten, and twelve.
