It started with a letter.
Arthur found it tucked under the door one morning—a cream-colored envelope sealed with wax, his name written in block letters that looked like they belonged on legal documents, not junk mail. He stared at it for a full minute before picking it up.
"Something wrong?" Elsa asked from the couch.
He turned the envelope over in his hands. "Not sure yet."
He opened it slowly. Inside was a formal offer letter—an auction notice for a repossessed property on the edge of town. A decaying house with a cracked foundation, overgrown yard, and peeling paint. In big red letters across the middle: "Opening bid: R180,000."
Elsa reached out a hand. "Read it to me."
He did, his voice growing steadier as he went.
"This is it," she whispered. "It's not pretty, but it's a start."
---
The auction was set for Friday. Arthur spent the next two days barely sleeping. Every moment he wasn't working, he was counting money, researching the property, running mental math over and over.
He'd saved nearly R230,000 from the garage job. That meant he could place a strong bid, but it would drain nearly everything they had.
On Thursday night, Elsa made a pot of rice and beans. It was the last of their groceries.
"You sure about this?" she asked gently.
He nodded. "If we don't try, we'll always be wondering."
"And if we lose?"
He swallowed. "We rebuild. But we try."
---
The courthouse auction room was a cold, echoing place. Rows of folding chairs. Fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead. A handful of real estate agents and investors stood in the back, murmuring in business tones.
Arthur stood near the front, envelope of cash sealed inside his jacket. He felt wildly out of place—too young, too anxious, too real in a room of practiced smiles.
The auctioneer called the first address.
The house they wanted.
"Opening bid: one-eighty," the auctioneer barked.
Arthur's hand shot up. "R180,000."
Another man in a suit immediately said, "R185,000."
Arthur countered, "R190,000."
Silence.
The man in the suit hesitated, then shook his head.
"Going once. Going twice. Sold to bidder fourteen for R190,000!"
Arthur's heart nearly burst from his chest. He didn't even hear the next address being called. His palms were sweaty, knees weak—but he had done it.
He had bought a house.
---
The moment he walked through the front door, the weight of the decision hit him like a brick.
The house was a mess.
Peeling wallpaper, sagging floors, broken windows. It reeked of mildew and rot. But Elsa stood beside him, taking cautious steps, running her fingers along the chipped doorframe.
"It feels open," she said. "Like it's holding its breath."
Arthur laughed. "That makes two of us."
They spent the first few days cleaning. Removing trash, scrubbing mold, sealing up holes. He patched the leaky roof with salvaged tin sheets and duct tape. The neighbors watched from across the street like waiting for him to fail.
And then the fire happened.
---
It was two weeks in. Arthur had just wired in a new breaker box with the help of a local electrician willing to work for cash. He went home proud that night, exhausted but hopeful.
Around midnight, the phone rang.
It was the neighbor across the street.
"Your house is on fire."
Arthur thought it was a joke. Until he heard the sirens. Until he saw the smoke from two blocks away.
They arrived to find flames licking up the walls of the back room. The fire brigade was already there, hoses blasting through broken windows. Neighbors stood in robes and slippers, watching like it was a reality show.
No one was hurt. The fire had started in the back—likely faulty wiring or an old fuse. The room was gutted.
Arthur stood staring at it while Elsa gripped his arm tightly.
"We'll fix it," she said. "We still have the rest."
But he barely heard her.
---
The next morning, the press showed up.
And with it, the scandal.
Apparently, the house he bought had once belonged to a political figure. The foreclosure had gone through messy legal channels. Now, the papers ran with headlines like: "Blind Girl and Boy with a Record Win Auction on Controversial Property."
"Why do they care?" Arthur growled, throwing the paper aside.
"Because people love stories," Elsa said quietly. "Especially ones they can twist."
Reporters camped outside the property. A lawyer representing the former owner claimed the auction was invalid due to "unprocessed documentation." They wanted the house back. Arthur's ownership was suddenly in question.
But he had the paperwork. He had the signatures. He had proof.
He spent two weeks fighting.
Phone calls. Courtrooms. Endless lines.
Elsa came with him to every appointment. Sat quietly while he argued with clerks and attorneys. Held his hand through every hearing.
And in the end, the judge sided with him.
The house was his.
---
Arthur sat on the front steps that evening, breathing deep, callused hands resting on his knees.
Elsa joined him, settling beside him.
"We did it," he said.
She nodded. "You did it."
"No. We."
They sat in silence, watching the sky fade from gold to pink to gray.
Behind them, the house stood half-damaged but whole.
Ahead of them, a future with their name on it.
And somewhere in the quiet space between the scandal and the scars, Arthur realized something:
He didn't just own a house now.
He owned his name.
And for the first time, it meant something.