The summers I’d spent in Chilson as a youngster had led me to consider the boardinghouse as the one place where things didn’t change. It wasn’t true, of course, and I had to keep telling myself that. The place had seen oodles of changes over its hundred-odd-year life; it was just that they were made when I wasn’t looking.

My aunt had come into its ownership after her first husband, Everett, had passed away, and it had come into his hands because he’d been the only person in the Pixley family who’d had any interest in owning the behemoth. “Rip it down” had been the general feeling at the time, but Uncle Everett and his young wife had felt differently.

Renovating the aging structure had been a labor of love for Aunt Frances and Uncle Everett, and the skills my aunt had gained during those efforts had led to her career as a teacher of woodworking.

The walls themselves were soaked with the memories of generations, all the way down through the plaster to the lath and studs made from virgin timber cut from Michigan’s vast and now vanished pine forests. The floor was unfinished oak, grown from an acorn in . . . well, where had it come from? I closed my eyes, trying to recall what I’d once learned. There were oak trees here, but had they ever been commercially lumbered? Of course, someone could have logged off a local oak grove and sold that, so—

“Are you okay?”

My eyes flew open. Cousin Celeste was standing in front of me, her arms piled so high with boxes that she was peering around them to make eye contact. I scrambled off the attic floor, got to my feet, and dusted the seat of my pants. “Sorry, I was just thinking about where the floor’s wood might have come from.”

“A tree, is my guess.”

I grinned. Celeste was one of the most pragmatic people I’d met in my life. “By golly, I bet you’re right.”

She laughed. “Let me guess. You were thinking deep thoughts about history and culture and local economies and I ruined it all by wanting to clean out the attic.”

“Well, that is why I’m here.” I looked around. As a kid, I’d found the boardinghouse attic beyond creepy and had done my best to stay out of it. As an adult, I still found the space a little creepy, but that was now offset by the fascination I felt for its contents.