Then he saw the wall.
Chase froze.
I held out the photograph.
“That’s why you looked familiar.”
He took it carefully with both hands.
For several seconds, he couldn’t speak.
“I thought we’d lost this.”
His thumb moved across the cracked glass.
“Grandpa loved this picture.”
Then he walked toward the wall and gently traced one of the pencil marks.
“I thought these were gone too.”
His eyes filled.
“Grandpa always joked that one day we’d need a taller wall.”
I looked toward the paint cans in the corner.
I’d planned to repaint the garage that weekend.
The roller was already sitting beside them.
Instead, I picked it up, carried it back to the shelf, and closed the paint can.
Chase looked at me.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m not painting over these.”
“You don’t have to keep them.”
“I know.”
I looked at the names and dates covering the wall.
“But some things deserve to stay exactly where they are.”
Chase nodded slowly.
Then we stood together in that old garage, looking at the pencil marks his family had left behind.
Technically, the house belonged to me now.
