The rhythmic whirl of the windmill had settled into a comforting hum, a constant testament to Ethan’s ingenuity. It had been a couple of weeks since that momentous flip of the “Power” switch, and in that time, Royal had begun to shed its shroud of desolation, thanks to Ethan’s persistent efforts. The house, once a silent monument to decay, now hummed with a growing energy, a quiet defiance against the wilderness encroaching around it.
Ethan had become a whirlwind of activity, moving through the house from top to bottom, assessing, cleaning, and mending. The tools from the shed, once alien in his hands, were now extensions of his will. He’d fixed the kitchen cabinets, their doors now closing with a satisfying click instead of a crooked groan. The incessant drip of leaky pipes in both the kitchen and the upstairs bathroom had been silenced, replaced by the steady flow of water.
Upstairs, he’d waged a relentless war against the cobwebs, sweeping away years of neglect to reveal a gleam of hardwood floors. The grimy windows, once opaque with time, now offered clear views of the outside world, letting in the filtered sunlight. A genuine find in one of the bedroom closets was an old vacuum cleaner. After some determined tinkering, it sputtered to life, its familiar hum a welcome sound. He’d meticulously set up the bedroom furniture, then dragged the mattresses he’d found outside to the back porch. There, under the vast northern sky, he’d beaten years of dust from them with the back of a shovel, creating miniature dust storms with each powerful swing. Some forgotten sheets, a blanket, and pillows, aired out for hours, transformed a dusty room into “his” bedroom. The bedroom ceiling light glowed warmly, as did the small bedside lamp. Ethan stepped back, a small smile touching his lips. No more lumpy living room couch; he had a bed now, a genuine sanctuary. It was another small success that brought a deep sense of satisfaction.
The entire interior was steadily falling into place. The pervasive grime and neglect had been systematically eradicated. He’d even managed to unstick a few more windows, allowing the crisp, clean air to circulate freely through the house. Finding some old window screens in the back of the shed had been another small victory, and he’d painstakingly fitted them to several main-level windows, keeping out the persistent swarm of insects. The fresh air, once a distant memory, now permeated every room.
But the most significant triumph, the one that truly brought a sense of normalcy back into his life, was the running water. The few initial leaks and loose pipes had been easily remedied with his newfound proficiency with wrenches and pliers. And the hot water… it was nothing short of heavenly. Ethan had spent considerable time scrubbing the bathroom, battling the years of accumulated dirt and grime until the porcelain gleamed. The first shower he’d taken in weeks was a profound experience, the hot water washing away not just the physical dust but also a layer of the lingering despair.
And then there was the food. The root cellar, a cool, dark sanctuary beneath the house, had yielded a surprising bounty. Much of the canned fruit was mushy, its texture compromised by time, but the flavor was still there, a sweet, comforting reminder of simpler days. The canned vegetables were a little more crisp, and the pickles – oh, the pickles! – were a delightful surprise. The canned beef and chicken stews were more akin to baby food in consistency, but they filled his stomach, and the taste, though bland, was undeniably present. Ethan wasn’t going hungry, and that in itself was a comfort.
With the basic necessities of shelter and sustenance now largely in hand, Ethan began to venture outside. He started taking daily walks around the neighborhood, each deserted house an enigma waiting to be explored. He would stop at each one, studying its faded paint, its broken windows, its sagging porches. He let his imagination wander, weaving elaborate stories about the families who had lived there, their laughter, their arguments, their dreams echoing in his mind as he walked the silent streets.
In the evenings, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the windmill’s rhythmic turning became a soft, hypnotic hum, Ethan would take out his notebook and journal his thoughts. He meticulously described each house he’d visited, creating narratives around the lives of its former inhabitants. He also chronicled his own daily tasks, the small victories, the lingering frustrations. And sometimes, in the quiet solitude of the house, he would allow his raw emotions to spill onto the page. He would write about the searing anger at his parents, the inexplicable circumstances that had led him to this forgotten town. He would feel a familiar pang of self-pity for being stuck here, disconnected from the world he knew. And a deep, aching sadness for missing Peggy, the woman he loved, her face a vivid, painful memory in his mind.
But one thing remained untouched, a silent testament to a grief too raw to confront: his violin. It stayed in its case in the corner of the living room, a polished, beautiful instrument that now felt like a relic from another lifetime. His profound love for playing, once an inseparable part of his identity, had simply disappeared, replaced by a heavy, unyielding silence. Maybe it was the weeks of isolation, the sheer weight of everything he’d gone through, or perhaps it was his lingering anger, the resentment and belittlement from his parents that still resonated deeply within him, preventing him from playing.
In the evenings, to fill the quiet hours, Ethan would delve into the books, magazines, and old newspapers he’d found scattered around the house. With each article or story, Ethan discovered a little bit more about the history of life in Royal, piecing together fragments of a bygone era.
One evening, while exploring one of the bedrooms, he found an old picture frame. It was empty, much to his initial disappointment. However, a thought sparked in his mind. He retrieved the photos he’d brought from home, along with the mysterious photos he’d found on the coffee table that perplexing morning a few weeks prior. He carefully arranged them in the frame, a tangible connection to his past and to the enigma that was Royal. Next to the picture frame, he placed the key he’d also found on the coffee table that same morning. Every night, before drifting off to sleep, Ethan would look at the photographs and pick up the key, turning it over in his fingers. He’d closely studied the faces in the pictures, both familiar and unknown, and the worn metal of the key. Were they clues to a mystery? Or were they answers to questions that had been stored up inside of him for years, waiting for the right moment to surface?
