You pull into your spotless 2 car garage. That first-sip-of-cappuccino feeling. A girl presses her palms to the glass, bare feet on warm wood floors, sunlight pooling. The house is still warm from pancakes. Someone forgot to turn off the electric fireplace, but no one minds. The ceiling rises above. Vaulted. Silent. A kind of hush you don’t expect in a house this size. Upstairs, the en-suite shower runs. Steam gathers on the mirror. A song plays softly from a phone on the counter. Downstairs, a teenager slams the mudroom door and dumps his backpack. Built-in cubbies catch the mess like they were waiting for it. Outside, someone is setting the table. Two patio chairs. Wine. The smell of citronella and grilled corn. A half-acre with mature trees, fireflies blink as dusk draws near. The fence keeps the dog in. The world out. This is your life, a memory unfolding in real time. Four bedrooms. Three baths. Two cars tucked neatly in the garage. Quartz countertops. Porcelain tile. Stainless steel gleaming like Sunday morning. Double ovens that always smell like chocolate chip cookies. The HVAC hums. The water heater sings. Everything new, but nothing cold. A cul-de-sac, quiet as a held breath. You didn’t move here for square footage. You moved here for the moments. You moved here because one day, when you’re telling someone about your life, you’ll say, “this is where it really began.” Welcome home.