The Sign

The sign is rough, jagged and warped - like an old board ripped from a ship's hull, landing on shore after years. Faint, painted, uneven letters spell out 'House For Sale' with an arrow pointing straight ahead down the road.

How long has this sign been nailed to the tree? Years? A decade? Surely there isn't still a house for sale!? These are all the thoughts that run through Erin's head one after another as she stands in her walking shoes and thick parka, zipped up tight to her chin.

Erin tugs at her sleeve and glances at her watch. It's 10:05am, which honestly, the time doesn't matter that much anymore. The movement to check the time is just out of habit. It's Tuesday, and instead of being in the office, she is out walking, still trying to process how much life can change after an eight-minute meeting and a five-figure severance check. The check was generous, if you'd like to call it that. However everyone in the room knew it was written with the hopes of her just going away with no fuss. And after years of hard work and some strife, she decided that, yes, she could go without fuss for that amount. Was she bought? No. She was finally given what was earned and she could live with how it ended.

Her reflex is that she has to get back to her apartment so she can return calls, but she realizes the only real thing on her list today is to get a few items at the local market for dinner, perhaps some fresh crab, and that can happen at any time. And her cat is likely not even aware that she's gone - most certainly sound asleep in a puddle of sun on the back of the sofa.

So, with that, she starts down the driveway. The road winds along the shore, past a few fat pines and a couple of battered oaks. To her right, she passes a small shed with a slight lean, but it seems salvageable. A pigeon flies out from a missing window pane, and she thinks how the bird will be sad to be evicted. She catches that her thought is in an expectant tense - as if she already owns the property.

She walks up the small knoll and there is the house nestled in the overgrown sumac down below. Her eyes scan the property, expecting to see a car in the driveway and smoke coming from the chimney, but all is very still. So she cautiously continues.

The house is small - more like a cottage. There's a tall chimney on the gabled end made of stone, most certainly stone from this very beach. The humbled-sized windows are all carefully boarded which confirms that the house is not currently occupied, so she feels more at ease to poke around.

She notes the foundation looks surprisingly hearty and the walls appear sturdy and straight. After looping all the way around the house, she comes back to the front door and leans in closer to read a note that's sealed in a plastic bag nailed to the face of the door. It reads, "House for sale. But only to someone who will love it just as it is." A phone number follows.

Erin turns to her left and stands for minutes, looking out to sea. She thinks of all the years she worked hard, all the times she said no to vacations because of deadlines, and as her eyes follow a seagull, she wonders if it's her time now.

Her rational mind screams that the price tag is probably out of reach - the floors will be rotten - the pipes probably rusted and busted. But her irrational mind soothes her, telling her - this is everything you've ever wanted - it will just need a little dusting - come spring, you'll open all the windows to let in the sea air.

With that, she walks up to the note, pulls her phone out of her pocket and taps the numbers.

"Yes, hello, I'm calling about your house for sale." she gives an awkward laugh and continues with tears beginning to well, "I'm actually standing in front of it, and it's all I could ever hope for."

She can hear the smile in his old shaky voice, and he says back, "I live 10 minutes away and will be right over."

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Little escapes to brighten your heart - all stories are fictional and inspired by quiet moments I capture on the coast of Maine.

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