I’ve always been proud of my son, Michael. I raised him alone after his mother passed, sharing every moment. Last week, he surprised me: “Dad, I bought you a countryside cottage—peaceful, quiet, just what you need.”
But it wasn’t a cottage. It was a looming, abandoned mansion, gates creaking, windows like watching eyes. Michael beamed. “It’s perfect, Dad. Mom always wanted something like this.” Inside, dust and silence pressed down, the chandeliers flickered, and the house felt alive.
The next morning, I found an old photo in the garden—dated 1947, of a woman in front of this very house. Michael turned pale, confessing strange dreams about Mom since buying it. As we researched, we learned the mansion belonged to a vanished family and was rumored cursed. Its silence mirrored our grief.
We stayed, restoring the house together. As we painted and repaired, Michael opened up. We shared memories, spoke of loss, and began to heal.
In the end, the mansion wasn’t just a gift—it was a chance to face the past and rebuild ourselves. Michael hadn’t just given me a home; he’d given me healing. Sometimes, the places that scare us most bring us closer to who we’re meant to be.
