The second floor held the whispers of long-ago lives.
Old floorboards creaked under their boots as they stepped into a smaller room tucked toward the back of the house. The space curved gently, the rounded wall giving it a pocketed, almost protective feeling. A tall window overlooked a sprawling maple tree, its early spring leaves catching the sunlight and scattering warm patches across the floorboards.
Mason stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. "This would make a great nursery. Clients mentioned doing that eventually." He wiggled his eyebrows. "You can already picture the tiny furniture. Little crib. Little rocking chair. Little gremlin baby trying to eat drywall."
Declan froze.
Nursery.
The word cut deep. Sharp. Raw.
A soft lamplight flickered behind his eyes.A newborn girl nestled in her arms.Tiny fingers curled around a silver pendant.That warmth. That ache. That impossible familiarity.
It hit him so fast he took a step back like the floor had tilted.
Mason blinked. "You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost. Or worse, drywall damage."
"Fine," Declan said.
"You do not look fine."
"I said I'm fine."
Mason lifted both hands, palms out. "Copy that. Shutting up. Muting myself. Going into silent mode." He mimed zipping his lips and tossing the imaginary zipper over his shoulder.
Declan moved on quickly, needing the motion, needing distance from the word nursery.
The master bedroom opened in front of them like a held breath. Tall ceilings. Wide space. Peeling floral wallpaper curling at the corners. A cracked tile fireplace with soot stains that whispered of long-ago winters. Massive windows lined the far wall, their glass imperfect, eager for morning sun.
The room smelled faintly of old perfume and the soft must of fabric that had not been touched in decades, a scent that managed to feel both abandoned and deeply loved.
The remnants of a life lingered here.A shared life.A partnered life.
Victorian homes didn't try to hide their purpose. They carried it openly.
They wanted fullness.They wanted laughter.They remembered things.
His grandmother had said that once, leaning on her cane at the doorway of an old house she adored. "That is why they creak, Declan. Homes with big love always creak."
He stood in the middle of the bedroom, the weight of possibilities pressing in. Not fantasies. Not dreams. Just echoes of what the room was built for.
He did not want someone to share a master bedroom with.He did not want a life whose loss could ruin him.He did not want the dream to be real.
His chest tightened.
He turned on his heel and left the room before it could sink claws into him.
Mason trailed after him, glancing once over his shoulder. "I mean… wallpaper's a war crime. But the bones are great. Ten out of ten, would vibe here."
Declan ignored him and kept moving.
They headed back downstairs, the house breathing quietly around them as they talked through flooring, wiring, structural supports, and budget numbers. Mason cracked the occasional joke about "evil Victorian plumbing" and "feral baseboards," but Declan's responses stayed steady. Measured. Contained.
He didn't let his voice crack.
Not once.
When they reached the entryway again, Mason stretched with dramatic agony, like a cartoon character waking from hibernation.
"Alright, boss. If I don't get caffeine in the next ten minutes, I'm going to start gnawing on furniture. And not even the good furniture. I'm talking baseboards. Drywall corners. Full gremlin mode. Coffee? There's a place down the block. You'll love it."
Declan opened his mouth to refuse. His morning had been enough of a circus already. He needed silence. Work. Routine.
But then something flickered at the edge of his awareness.
Not a pull.
Not a sign.
Just… a faint, nagging familiarity he could not place. Like the ghost of a half-remembered memory.
He stepped outside, letting the early spring sun hit his shoulders. The cool air smelled faintly of damp earth and budding trees. Another breeze rolled by, carrying the softest trace of lavender.
He inhaled sharply.
Lavender oil.
His grandmother's hands used to smell like that when she worked in her garden. The scent brushed past him now, just enough to stir a warmth in his chest he hadn't felt in years.
Her voice rose in his memory, gentle and distant.
"Dragonflies guide you back when you have forgotten something important, Declan."
He blinked hard, clearing the echo. It was only a scent on the wind. A coincidence. Nothing more.
Mason was already halfway down the walkway. "Come on, man. This espresso will change your life. Probably not for the better, but still. Change is change."
Declan huffed a breath that wasn't quite a laugh and followed.
They walked two blocks into town. Mistwood looked different in the morning. The early spring light softened the edges of the buildings, casting long shadows across brick storefronts and iron lampposts. A few shops had propped their doors open already, letting in the breeze. Flower boxes along the sidewalk held new blooms that hadn't existed the week before.
Mason chatted about replacing the staircase joists and the "demon possum" he suspected lived under the porch. Declan half-listened, letting the rhythm of the street settle something inside him.
Then he saw it.
The coffee shop on the corner.
A brick building with deep green trim. Hanging flower baskets swaying gently under the awning. Warm lights glowing inside even though the sun was already up. A chalkboard sign on the sidewalk with crooked handwriting advertising cinnamon rolls and a Maple Brown Sugar Latte.
The scent of espresso drifted into the street.
Warm. Sweet. Familiar in a way he could not explain.
And something inside him went very still.
Not recognition.
Not certainty.
Just that same quiet, persistent feeling he'd had all morning.
Like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn't yet see.
He drew in a slow breath.
Mason clapped him on the back. "Let's caffeinate before I start hallucinating productivity."
Declan nodded once and stepped toward the door.