Every family believes it is beginning the story.
The house has heard that before.
Some houses are older than everyone living inside them.
They have watched keys change hands so many times that one more turn hardly changes anything.
A family arrives, and the walls are painted before the boxes are even unpacked.
Furniture finds its place.
Children choose their rooms before anyone finishes unpacking.
Soon, the house begins hearing a familiar word.
My.
My room.
My window.
My kitchen.
My home.
It hears the word every generation.
Always with the same certainty.
Always as though no one has ever spoken it there before.
Years pass.
The children become parents.
The parents become photographs hanging on the very walls they once painted.
Then, one day, the front door closes behind a family for the last time.
The house grows quiet.
Not forever.
Only until another key turns.
Another child runs through the same hallway.
Another family fills the same rooms with plans.
Another voice says the same word.
My.
The house never agrees.
The house never objects.
It keeps opening its doors, while every generation quietly believes it has finally found someone who will stay.
Every family leaves eventually.
What never leaves is the belief that they wouldn't.
Some people once lived in homes that had belonged to people before them.
They did not need another story.
They were already living inside one.
It had already become clear to them.
The examples had not disappeared.
People had learned to live among them without seeing them.
One day, your key will turn for the last time.
Someone else will unlock the same door.
They will walk through the same rooms.
They will look through the same window.
And before long, the oldest word the house has ever known will return.
My.
If this house quietly stayed with you after you closed the door, I'd be grateful to have you with me for the next one.
