The cardboard boxes were stacked so high in Sarah and Leo’s cramped apartment that they’d begun using a flat-screen box as a makeshift dining table. For six months, "The Spreadsheet" had been their North Star, tracking every cent saved by skipping takeout and enduring another year with Leo’s rattling 2012 sedan.
They drove to the house in silence. Leo unlocked the door, the click echoing through the empty entryway. There was no furniture, just golden rectangles of afternoon light stretching across the hardwood floors. They sat on the floor in the middle of the living room, leaning against each other. "We're not tenants anymore," Leo whispered. preparing to buy first home
Then came the blue Craftsman on Elm Street. It had a porch that sighed when you walked on it and a kitchen that smelled faintly of pine cleaner. When their agent called, Sarah held her breath so long her ribs ached. "They accepted," the voice said. The cardboard boxes were stacked so high in
Closing day was a blur of ink and cramped hands. When the lawyer finally slid a heavy brass key across the desk, it felt lighter than Sarah expected, yet it carried the weight of every weekend they’d spent scouting neighborhoods. Leo unlocked the door, the click echoing through