Deep down, he held onto a single goal: he wanted a place of his own. A place with a lock he controlled, where no one could ever throw him out again. One morning, while scanning the “For Sale” section of a local rural newspaper, he saw a listing that seemed like a typo. A small property in a remote town called Pine Ridge was listed for five dollars.
He read it three times, certain it was a mistake or a scam. But his gut told him to call. An elderly man named Mr. Miller answered. He explained that the house had belonged to his late brother and had been sitting vacant for years. It was a total wreck, but the land was good. Mr. Miller, now in his eighties, lived three states away and couldn’t maintain it anymore.
He didn’t want to see the old family plot turned into a dumping ground. He wanted someone who would actually live there and fix it up. A week later, David took a bus out to Pine Ridge. What he saw would have made most people turn around and walk away. The small cabin was in a state of absolute decay.
The roof had partially caved in, the windows were shattered, and the front door was hanging by a single rusted hinge. The yard was a jungle of weeds and scrap metal. It wasn’t a house; it was a ruin. Mr. Miller, who had driven down to finalize the deed, looked at the boy and sighed. He told David he wouldn’t be offended if he backed out right then and there.
But David didn’t move. He looked at the rotting cedar siding and saw a fortress. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to the old man. He looked Mr. Miller in the eye and promised he would make it right. There was a grit in the boy’s voice that made the old man nod in respect.
Mr. Miller shook David’s hand, handed him a heavy ring of rusted keys, and told him he had a good feeling about him. That first night, David slept on the floor on a pile of old blankets he’d brought in his pack. He looked up through the hole in the roof at the stars and felt a strange sense of peace. For the first time in years, he was home.

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