He sold his truck, the one vehicle in his possession he had always called irreplaceable. A restored classic he had spent a decade rebuilding piece by piece in the hours after closing. She assumed at first that he had sold it out of desperation, some final sacrifice to keep the shop afloat despite its recovery. She nearly said something to stop him before it was too late. But by the time she learned the truth, the sale had already closed.
He had not sold the truck to save the business. He had sold it to buy the small house sitting empty beside the garage. The one with a sagging porch and a single bare window that faced the shop's back lot. A house Adeline had walked past countless times without ever considering it more than another piece of the town's quiet decline. He walked her over one evening after closing, keys still smelling faintly of the hardware store, his boots crunching over half-melted snow, and told her plainly that he had not done it because he needed someone to cook or manage a household in his place.
The house was small and mostly bare inside. A single light bulb hanging from the ceiling of what had once been a living room. The floorboards creaking beneath their weight as they walked through room after empty room. Adeline said nothing at first. Uncertain what he intended by bringing her here.
Watching him run a hand along a door frame the way he might inspect a car he was considering buying. Careful and deliberate. I didn't buy this because I need a wife to run a home, he said, standing in the small, empty living room where dust still floated in the evening light. I bought it because I want someone who leaves a light on for me. Not because she has to, because she wants to.