He had spent months tracking down the owner. It wasn't as simple as knocking on a door; he had to dig through county tax records and trace a lineage of names that ended in a dusty law office three states away. The property was "distressed," a polite word for dying. There were back taxes, a lien from a decades-old roof repair, and a garden that had turned into a mini-forest.
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When he finally held the keys, they felt heavy and cold. The first time he stepped inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood and long-settled dust. Sunlight filtered through cracked shutters, illuminating thousands of dancing motes. It was a graveyard of someone else's life—a single velvet slipper under a radiator, a stack of newspapers from 1984, and a piano with keys that clicked but didn't sing. He had spent months tracking down the owner