I turn in a slow circle taking everything in.

On the back wall there’s an avocado-colored refrigerator and an antique gas range in a darker forest green. The counters, a few feet of them on either side of a porcelain farm sink, to the right of the door are slate, rough-hewn, probably locally quarried and handmade. The floors underneath are pine—they’re solid, squeak-free, restained within the past ten years and well cared for, but old, very old. Like much else I’m seeing, the floors are handcrafted, and by someone skilled in woodworking well before the time of electric saws and sanders.

The walls are bare log, with a few antique decorations: a Coca-Cola sign, some snowshoes, a two-man saw, an old fishing net. Over the door hangs a muzzleloader, the barrel octagonal, the stock made from a dark, polished hardwood.

“Nice,” I murmur. Not so much to myself as to the spirit of Adrian.

It’s clean, so someone’s been here to freshen up.

There’s a door on the back wall, left of the range, leading to the bedroom. The wall left of the front door is dominated by the fireplace, made from giant river stones and boulders, with a thick pine mantle over it. On the mantle is a small envelope, and within, a sheet from a legal pad, in Adrian’s handwriting.

I open it; it’s from Adrian.

Welcome home, Nathan.

This place was built in 1899 by a man named Roger Klupinsky. He was a craftsman, as I’m sure you can see. He built the whole place, top to bottom, with his own two hands. Quarried the stone for the counters, cut down and worked the trees for the walls and the floors, everything. His great-grandson did some retouching a decade or so ago, refinished the floor, put on the metal roof, updated the wiring and plumbing. The appliances are genuine antiques, but refurbished. The muzzleloader works, there’s powder and shot and all that stuff in the closet in the bedroom, I’m told.

The other key is for a lockbox at the bank in town. It’s in your name. Go get the contents of that box. Meet you there, partner!

Unsigned.

It’s like a scavenger hunt, eh, Adrian? All right, I’m game. I lost track of the hours it took to get here, and I’m wiped. Maybe I’ll even sleep.

The bedroom is tiny, just big enough for a queen bed, again handmade by the same hands. A newer mattress, though, and I spy bedding in a large zippered bag in the closet on the shelf. I make the bed, and then check out the bathroom. Tinier yet. Toilet, pedestal sink, mirrored medicine cabinet. Subway tile shower, a glass door, the enclosure barely big enough for someone my size. Thank god, though, the showerhead is hung high enough I won’t have to do the limbo to get under it.

Home.

Huh.