At the very end of Maplewood Street, where the pavement cracked into thin gray lines and the streetlights flickered as if they were tired of shining, stood a quiet wooden house that most people passed without a second glance. It leaned slightly to one side, not enough to seem broken, but enough to suggest that it had been standing there longer than anyone could remember, listening to the whispers of wind and the soft rhythm of rain against its windows. The paint had once been a cheerful shade of blue, but time had softened it into something gentler, something closer to the color of a fading sky at dusk.
At the very end of Maplewood Street, where the pavement cracked into thin gray lines and the streetlights flickered as if they were tired of shining, stood a quiet wooden house that most people passed without a second glance. It leaned slightly to one side, not enough to seem broken, but enough t...