I never imagined that restoring a crumbling house would lead me to rebuild more than just its walls. When I returned to my grandmother's old Victorian home, it was with a heart full of memories and a dream of reclaiming the warmth that had once filled its halls. But instead of a quiet sanctuary, I found Nathangruff, guarded, and maddeningly practical. Where I see history, he sees headaches. And where I hope to restore memories, he insists on tearing down the past. Yet, amidst the peeling paint and scattered tools, we're building something I didn't expect. With every argument about paint colors and every shared moment of vulnerability, I start to see beyond his wallsand he, beyond mine. As the house transforms, so do we, brick by brick, memory by memory. But as the lines between us blur, I'm left wonderingcan we truly restore something broken? Or will the foundation crack before we even begin?
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