The first night in a rented house feels different.
He walks carefully. He hesitates before moving a chair.
There is a nail in his pocket, picked up on the drive here, meant for the one photograph he unpacked first. He turns it over between two fingers, then slips it into the drawer by the door instead. Drilling into someone else's wall doesn't feel right on the first night. He tells himself he'll ask the owner properly, once they know each other a little better.
Nothing belongs to him.
Weeks pass. Then months.
The key stops missing the lock in the dark. The kettle finds the same place on the counter every morning without him thinking about it. His shoes settle by the door. His favourite mug always ends up on the same shelf.
One day a picture appears on the wall. Another year passes. A room gets repainted. The curtains change. The lights change.
Guests visit. They compliment the house. He smiles.
Without anyone noticing, a single word moves in.
"My house."
It slips into conversation so easily that nobody questions it.
Not even him.
The roof leaks.
He calls the owner. The owner talks about the next tenant instead of the roof.
He starts to say the words that have lived in his mouth for years. The owner keeps talking, already past it, already thinking about move-out dates.
The paperwork had answered the sentence long before he ever spoke it.
"My house."
The words come out anyway.
Quieter this time.
In the drawer by the door, the nail still waits.
He never did ask.
If this one stayed with you, The Backpack sits close by. Same question, different weight.
