Mr. Chapman’s hand was on my elbow, guiding me into, through the cabin, and he was careful to show me all the points that would need repair, all the places where work would have to be done. But I barely heard him. When he suggested we walk around the property, I almost refused. I wanted just to be there, to sit down in what would be the living room, in front of the dead fireplace, just sit on the floor and never leave. There was nothing I had ever felt before to guide me. This was my home.

But Mr. Chapman’s voice grew louder, more insistent, it penetrated and when I looked at him I saw his face was nervous, wondering. I must look strange to him, I thought, and some of the Abra who did not want to cause worry returned. I gave in and followed him outside, and we went for a walk, out to where the pasture meets the woods, so that I would see the fall of the property and understand its boundaries and what it contained. The land, yes, it held me too, but it was the cabin that was truly my own, and when we returned to it I told Mr. Chapman that I wanted to go back in, to think about it for just a few minutes, and if he wanted to start back down the lane to the car, I would catch up shortly. My voice seemed to be coming from far away, saying what was necessary, but everything must have appeared all right to him because he gave me the key and asked me to lock up when I left.

I was inside. The counters, all in natural wood, I felt them, unfinished but without splinters, smooth, solid, the kitchen large and warm. Through the low, brief passage to the living room; the fireplace, bare peeling walls, work to be done, yes, and a breeze coming through the broken window panes; and into the bedroom, peeling also but plain and the window looking up into the willow, how good, I thought, to wake up and know the willow is keeping watch, everything shabby, and me wanting to just stay, to curl up in it until I absorbed it or it absorbed me, this odd peace that was not peaceful, no memories, no bars, just a holding. The house belonged to me, it was right, and nothing could matter beside that. And the smell of spring, of rushing water and greening things, I hadn’t known about any of this before, and yet here it was, part of me, so that there was no confusion, and I wanted to lie down in front of the fireplace and just be left.