The house was a Victorian disaster. The "bones" were allegedly good, but the skin—the peeling cedar shingles and the sagging porch—looked like it was ready to give up. Elias stepped out of his car, the gravel crunching under his boots, and met his realtor, Sarah. She looked at the house, then at Elias’s polished shoes, and sighed.
"It’s a money pit, Elias," she said, not even opening her briefcase. "The foundation is settling, the wiring is prehistoric, and I’m pretty sure the attic is a sovereign nation for raccoons." i want to buy property
"It has a fireplace in the kitchen," Elias countered. He climbed the porch steps, which groaned in protest. "And the oak trees in the back? You can’t build those. You have to inherit them." The house was a Victorian disaster
I can look up or available listings to get you started. She looked at the house, then at Elias’s
He drove back to Willow Lane in the pouring rain. The house looked even grayer against the storm, but as he turned the key in the lock, the click was the most satisfying sound he’d ever heard. He walked into the empty foyer. The air smelled of dust and old memories.