I can’t shake the feeling that there’s a story hidden in these tubes, a story I’m not quite ready to uncover.
By day, my life runs like clockwork—juggling my job at a small tech firm, managing a lease on this aging house, and trying to keep my partner’s expectations in check.
Renovations were supposed to be a distraction, a way to breathe new life into the place we just bought.
Instead, I’m dragging a secret around with me.
The tubes stay tucked in my pocket, and so does the nagging question.
The renovation contractor—let’s call him Jim—has a way of reminding me who’s really calling the shots.
Every request I make is filtered through his indifferent shrug or vague deadline.
Jim’s the gatekeeper here, and his silence about the house’s history feels like a barrier.
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