Ethan Vale walked with slow, steady steps, the morning air brushing cool against his face. A quiet neighborhood unfolded around him — rows of trees, old parked cars, the distant sound of a lawn mower, and the soft chatter of birds perched along electrical wires. Everything felt too normal compared to the emotional storm inside him.
In his pocket, he carried the folded letter from his father.
His father.
The weight of those written words refused to settle. It felt like carrying a piece of the past that had suddenly come alive again after months of silence.
He turned left at the familiar corner.
Three blocks.
The lawyer had said it was only three blocks from his rented apartment — and yet, Ethan had somehow never noticed the house before. Maybe he had passed it without knowing. Maybe the universe had been saving this moment for now.
Then he saw it.
A quiet, modest single-family home.
Not large.
Not luxurious.
But solid.
Strong.
A place meant for a family starting a new chapter.
The exterior paint was a faded cream, warmed by the morning light. A short walkway led to a small porch with a rail that tilted slightly at the end. A wind chime hung beside the door, silent but swaying ever so gently.
The yard was a little overgrown, as though no one had truly lived here for months — but not so wild that it felt abandoned. More like the home was sleeping.
Waiting.
Ethan paused at the gate.
"This… is mine?" he whispered, barely believing it.
The key the lawyer gave him felt cold in his palm. He pushed the gate open, its hinges creaking softly, and walked toward the front door. His steps slowed as he approached — fear, excitement, sorrow, and disbelief blending into something strange and heavy.
He placed the key into the lock.
It fit too perfectly.
Click.
The door opened.
Dusty sunlight washed over the empty living room. The air smelled faintly of wood, distant lemon cleaner, and something nostalgic he couldn't name.
The house was bare of furniture, but the structure… the layout… everything screamed the presence of a family that had once planned to fill it.
A couch would have gone near the window.The dining table probably right behind.A bookshelf along the wall for his mother, maybe.A workstation for his father near the corner.
Ethan stepped inside.
His footsteps echoed — lonely, but full of possibility.
He moved deeper into the home, exploring each room slowly.
The kitchen counters were polished but unused. The cabinets were empty. A small pantry stood beside the fridge space, still holding a paint bucket with his father's scribbled handwriting on top: "For living room – second coat."
Ethan closed his eyes.
They really had been preparing for him.
He moved down the hallway and noticed a narrow wooden door near the kitchen — almost hidden between larger cabinets.
Curious, he tried the knob.
It opened to reveal a narrow stairway leading downward.
A basement.
The air drifting up was cool, almost comforting.
He flicked the switch.
A single bulb blinked and buzzed before lighting the stairwell in dim yellow.
Ethan descended carefully.
His shoes touched concrete at the bottom.
The basement was spacious — bigger than he expected. Concrete floors, wooden support beams, and a faint smell of metal and sawdust. Old shelves lined the walls, some bare, some holding dusty boxes and tool cases.
A sturdy workbench stood near the far wall.
Above it, pinned to a board, were papers: sketches of shelves, measurements for cabinets, wiring diagrams, and a note in his father's handwriting:
"Future Workshop for Ethan."
The words hit harder than he expected.
This wasn't just a basement.
It wasn't just storage.
It was supposed to be his space.
A place for him to build, learn, create… grow.
His father had planned this for him without ever telling him.
Ethan traced the dusty edge of the workbench, his throat tightening.
"You wanted this for me…" he whispered. "A space to make things… like you always knew I would."
His mind immediately began mapping the room — imagining a desk here, a soldering station there, maybe shelves for tools, a charging hub for projects…
Apocalypse.
A workshop like this could become the birthplace of everything he needed to survive in this unpredictable world.
But more importantly…
It felt like a connection to his parents.
A final gift.
A reminder that they believed in him long before he believed in himself.
Ethan took a deep breath, letting the cool, still air settle inside his lungs.
For the first time since transmigrating, since losing everything familiar, since waking as a stranger in this universe…
He felt grounded.
Not lost.
Not drifting.
Not surviving minute to minute.
Here — in this quiet basement — he felt something he had been missing for months:
Home.
He looked around once more, committing every corner to memory.
"I'll make this place amazing. I promise."
Then Ethan turned toward the stairs, the echoes of his footsteps carrying both sorrow and hope as he climbed.
Ethan climbed the creaking wooden stairs back to the main floor, leaving the cool quiet of the basement behind. The air upstairs felt warmer, carrying faint traces of paint and dust that had settled over the months.
He took a slow breath and glanced toward the staircase leading to the second floor.
"Alright… let's see what you're hiding up there," he murmured.
He placed his hand on the railing and began to climb.
The steps were worn slightly at the center — not from current use, but from his parents moving up and down while preparing the house. Somehow, knowing that made every step feel more personal.
At the top, a small landing branched into three rooms and a bathroom. Sunlight leaked through old curtains, casting long shadows across the wooden floors.
He opened the door to the first room.
It was empty — no furniture, just soft light spilling through the window. The walls were painted a pale blue, likely chosen with the idea of making it his room someday.
Ethan walked in, letting his fingers graze the windowsill. Dust rose lazily into the sunlight.
He smiled faintly.
"This could be my workspace… or maybe my bedroom."
But there were no decisions yet. Only possibilities.
He stepped back into the hallway and entered the second room.
This room was smaller, square-shaped, and oddly quiet. Stacked near the far wall were several cardboard boxes labeled in a mix of handwriting.
"Books — Dad""Kitchen Stuff""Electronics""Office"
But one box at the bottom caught his eye.
It was slightly open, the tape peeling off, and on its side written faintly:
"Old PC Set — Do Not Throw"
Ethan knelt and pulled the flaps open.
Inside lay a bulky old computer tower, yellowed slightly with age. A matching keyboard, a CRT monitor wrapped in cloth, some stray cables, and a dusty mouse.
His eyes widened a little.
"Well… this is ancient," he chuckled softly.
But then, another thought struck him.
Old or not, a computer was still a computer.
And with Alternative and AI Making, even old hardware could become part of something greater. He could salvage parts. Reuse circuits. Build things in the basement.
This wasn't trash.It was potential.
Possibility.
A starting foundation.
He lifted the tower slightly.
Dust. Lots of dust.
He wrinkled his nose and stood up.
"Okay, before anything else… I need to clean this place."
He looked around the room again — shelves that needed wiping, floors that needed sweeping, boxes coated in a thin layer of gray.
The whole house felt like it had been frozen in time, waiting for someone to breathe life back into it.
Someone… like him.
Ethan rolled up his sleeves.
"I'll fix up everything, Dad. All of it. I'll make this house shine again."
His voice echoed gently through the quiet upper floor.
With a small smile and a growing sense of purpose, he headed downstairs to begin cleaning — the first step in turning this silent home into something truly his.