The creaking of the dead pines blowing in the wind felt oddly soothing as Samual gently prodded the worn steps of the house with his feet. It held. He stood still, holding his breath, staring at the cracked windows, the shattered doors. The house, the only property in what remained of his once-expansive estate, was now broken and dilapidated after decades of abandonment. But he knew that there was only one way - to go forward.

Samual sighed as the breeze washed over him. Echoes of children's laughter floated past him, then dispersed. This house, like all homes, was built on memories. It was nothing without the people inhabiting it, and everything about it screamed that it hadn't been inhabited in a very, very long time. Not since he left those forty years ago.

He opened the broken door and cringed at the squeal it emitted. It sounded a lot like he made a mistake in leaving the house. Like he made a mistake in returning. Like the place he'd once called home was filled to the brim with regrets. He'd have to take it apart board by board to air out those regrets and make this place worthy of being a home once again.

He entered the house. Dust particles floated in the sunlit corridor before him. It reminded him of his mother airing out rugs on the porch. He made his way to the kitchen—despite his lengthy absence he knew his way around better than he knew the layout of his apartment complex back home—and set his toolbox on the counter. It creaked under the weight but held. He chose to take this as a good sign.

Despite his trepidations, a bit of him was eager for new memories to be made here. Long after he was gone his children would raise their children here. It was more than a legacy: it was a gift. It was the only thing he could give them. A few years of manual labor and they would never have to worry about having a roof over their heads.

He heard the horrible squealing of the door behind him. He froze, then ducked behind the counter. Nobody was supposed to know he was here. He came to fix up the house, not entertain any guests. Was it cousin Rodney, who'd always been jealous he hadn't been the one to inherit the house? Was it aunt Marg, who was in a retirement home some states away but had persistently pestered Samual about visiting? Heavy footsteps grew closer. He could hear heavy breathing on the other side of the counter. It didn't sound like an elderly woman, at least. The smell of dust was cut with... was that cotton candy?

Samual peeked over the counter. There, in his childhood home, was a teenager he knew he'd never seen before, vaping. Blood rushed to his head and his ears started pounding. Who the fuck did this kid think he was?

"What in God's name do you think you're doing here?" Samual said as he stood up, pitching his voice low.

The kid's eyes shot over to him, but rather than seeming terrified —as a trespassing teen ought to—, he seemed confused. "Uh, this is my house?"

"The hell it is." Samual opened his toolbox. He'd been expecting to have to defend his ownership of a home that'd lain vacant for decades. Had he been expecting some punk kid to try to claim it? No, and he felt rather irritated at having to prove himself to such a delinquent, but he supposed it was better to present the evidence and get it over with than get into a pissing match with someone a quarter his age. He held up his grandparent's will and pointed to where his own name was printed. "See, says it right here. House belongs to one Samual Jacobson. I don't suppose that's your name?"

The teen leaned in and studied it curiously. "Uh, no it isn't. But it says right here," he poked the bottom of the page, "if 'one Samual Jacobson' chooses not to claim the property it goes to next of kin. That'd be my dad, who gave it to me when he died."

Samual's chest tightened. That just couldn't be true. He flipped the page over and studied it furiously. He'd laughed in Marg's face when she suggested getting a lawyer, but apparently that might've been a good idea.

"I'm here now, aren't I? I'm claiming it." He tried to give his voice a gruff edge.

The teen looked around the dilapidated house. "I mean, I guess you had to try?"

"What do you want, money?" Samual didn't even know why he said that, he was flat broke.

"I'd like you to get the fuck off my property, to be honest." The teen smiled and shrugged, then took another hit of his vape.