The bright sunlight that leapt off the snow banks barely penetrated the currents of dust inside the old building. Laurel’s boots crunched over shadowed debris on the floor. The air smelled of damp wallpaper, old plaster, and rancid wood varnish.

Ashley pressed the wire handle of an LED lantern into Laurel’s hand. A button on the top created a rim of cold light around them. Dust motes circled them like curious moths.

Laurel held the lantern higher, and the light stretched farther across the wide entryway.

Ashley pulled a hammer from her bag and went to the front wall. She began prying nails from grayed planks, pulling the wood away from shattered windows. The crack of brittle boards echoed dully off ancient plaster walls.

As the light crept in, shapes emerged in the shadows.

Laurel walked to the dusty mound of an old secretary desk. She lifted the hinged handle and lowered the heavy writing surface. It was a dark-grained wood coated in crumbling leather that peeled away from tarnished brass tacks. She ran her fingertips gently across the rich grain, tracing the hand-carved grooves. The back wall of the desk was a honeycomb of cubbies and chambers, each stuffed with brittle, yellowed papers. The desk held the scent of old paper trapped for a century, and Laurel breathed it deep, a concentrated hit of endorphins.

Laurel set the lantern down and reached into the first enclosure, pulling out a handful of crumbling correspondence. She settled in the tilting wooden chair and shuffled through the papers. Ledger after ledger lined in red; bills for repairs, lumber, and unfinished labor. Red everywhere.

Ashley’s chin pressed down on her shoulder. “Shall I leave you two alone?” She giggled.

“Actually, that would be great,” Laurel said.

Ashley smacked her arm. “Bitch.”

“Why don’t you go see if you can find us a room that doesn’t smell like dead things?”

“You can find your own room. We’re not kids anymore; we don’t have to share.”

Ashley stepped onto the sweeping staircase. Laurel set down the papers, grabbed the lantern, and followed Ashley’s light around the curve of the stairs. There weren’t likely to be many habitable rooms. She’d have to claim a space or be left sleeping in a pile of damp rot.

The second-floor hall stretched long in either direction. The floor warped like a twisted ribbon, and the ceiling sagged and bulged with whatever secret damages lay on the floor above. Ashley’s light glowed from a room to the right. Laurel went left. Barely half the rooms had doors, and most of those hung from a single crooked hinge. Dusty furniture sagged under the weight of years. Ashley had been right about the antiques—there was a goldmine here—a lifetime of restoration. A lifetime of work.

Laurel felt a pull in her chest. Hope? Probably asthma. She couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Both hurt.