Chapter 1: The House That Chose Me

The day Mom and Dad decided we’d go house-hunting in Savannah, I had no idea my life was about to turn upside down.

That spring afternoon, the sun was blazing as we rolled through the streets of Savannah, the car windows down and the breeze sticky with the scent of magnolias. My knees stuck to the vinyl seat, and somewhere nearby, a lawnmower buzzed like summer itself. My hands pressed against the window, wide-eyed at the unfamiliar sights. I stood in front of an old, shabby house and refused to leave.

The paint was peeling in long strips, and the porch sagged like it had taken a hundred years of deep sighs. But something about it—maybe the creaky screen door or the wild azaleas tangled in the yard—rooted me to the spot. No matter how much my parents tried to talk me into moving on, I stood my ground. What if we left and someone else took it? My chest felt tight, like I’d lose something I hadn’t even held yet.

Mom’s voice was coaxing, Dad’s was stern, but I just hugged myself and stared at the weathered porch swing, imagining it swaying on a summer night. In the end, they had no choice but to buy it.

They signed the papers with worried looks, the realtor glancing at me like I was some kind of oddball. I just grinned, hugging my mom’s arm tight, feeling like this battered place was already mine. Three days later, a huge red spray-painted word—'DEMOLISH'—appeared on the wall of our newly bought house.

The letters dripped like a warning. My parents were stunned.