The air smelled different here crisp, untouched by the weight of memories, waiting to be claimed. As we stepped out of the car, the breeze carried the scent of pine and distant rain, a promise of new beginnings. Before us stood the house, our house. Not yet a home, but it would be.
It was smaller than the one we had left behind, with ivy creeping along the stone walls, as if nature itself had embraced it. Large windows invited the golden afternoon light inside, casting long shadows on the wooden porch.
You stood beside me, silent for a moment, eyes scanning every detail. I watched you take it all in the way your fingers brushed against the worn wooden railing, the soft curve of your lips as you imagined what this place would become.
"This is it," I murmured, reaching for your hand.
You nodded, squeezing my fingers gently. "This is home."
With that, we stepped inside. The air inside carried a hint of dust and time, but beneath it, there was potential. The floors creaked beneath our steps, the empty rooms echoed with possibility. A canvas waiting for us to fill it with color, with laughter, with life.
I turned to you, watching as you walked through each space, touching the walls as if feeling their history. "What do you think?" I asked.
You smiled, and in your eyes, I saw something deeper than just excitement I saw certainty. "I think," you said softly, "we're about to create something beautiful."