The House Looked Familiar… Until It Didn’t
The entryway was the same.
Living room to the right. Kitchen straight ahead. Stairs to the left.
My body remembered the layout the way a scar remembers pressure.
But the house wasn’t a museum.
It was alive.
The living room held desks with computers.
Filing cabinets lined the wall.
A whiteboard displayed a duty roster, meal schedule, and medical appointments.
“This is our office now,” Maggie explained. “We repurposed rooms as we grew.”
“How many people live here?” I asked, hearing my voice like it belonged to someone else.
“Forty-seven,” she said. “Right now.”
My stomach flipped.
She listed them like facts she had repeated a thousand times:
- Veterans who had nowhere else to go
- Women escaping violent situations
- Children
- Thomas and his mother, Rose
- A family who arrived after fleeing Afghanistan
“James knew them all,” I whispered.
“He knew everyone who ever stayed here,” Maggie said. “Especially the temporary ones.”
The kitchen was industrial now: oversized stoves, enormous refrigerator, shelves stacked like a working cafeteria.
Children’s drawings covered a metal worktable.
One drawing stopped me cold.
Stick figures around a blue circle.
Childish letters above it:
Ben’s water.
“What is Ben’s water?” I asked, throat tightening.
Thomas lit up.
“The swimming place,” he said proudly. “Where kids learn not to drown.”
The room tilted.
Maggie pulled out a chair quickly.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We should have eased you into it.”
I gripped the chair back.
“No,” I said. “Show me.”
Maggie studied my face, then nodded once.
“Before the lake,” she said, “there’s something upstairs. Something James made for you.”
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