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On the edge of the city, tucked away at the end of 16th Avenue, stood a house without a roof. In the evenings, we used to sneak there as the sun dipped low, casting golden rays across the trees in the distance. The silhouette of the house stretched across the grass behind the forge, sketching what looked like a sleeping dragon.

My cousin always dared us to climb the fence and go inside. The house was forbidding, rickety wooden walls barely standing, the floors coated in years of dirt and echoing with every footstep. Just brushing against the wall sent a shiver of fear down your spine. Spider webs draped from the beams like a haunted ceiling, and bats skittered across the rafters, flapping away when we entered each room. It was terrifying and thrilling. Our secret adventure.

Years passed. My cousin moved abroad. One day, he returned for a friend’s wedding, and we found ourselves back on 16th Avenue.

There it was.

The most elegant house I had ever laid eyes on. Standing tall at the end of the street, bathed in the soft light of a setting sun. I froze. The floodgates of nostalgia opened. That childhood hideout once abandoned, feared, and forgotten had transformed into a two-story dream. A wide balcony stretched along the front. Out back, an infinity pool shimmered in the dusk. A white wooden fence framed the front yard, not for security, but as a statement. There was an intercom now. You could no longer just walk in.

And yet, I remembered how many nights we stood outside, afraid to go in. The backyard was once a mess of weeds and shadows. The house nobody loved. Now, it was the house everyone admired but couldn’t have.

That evening, as I drove back to my one-bedroom rented apartment across town, I started re-evaluating my choices. In times of plenty, we take things for granted. In youth, we’re blind to the things that matter most. We run from peace and space. We crave noise, chaos, and movement. But age is a slow unveiling. One day, the veil lifts. And suddenly, the picture becomes clear.

Then regret sets in, not the kind that stings, but the kind that lingers. The kind that whispers, you missed the boat. Because someone else is already seated. You walked away from a field before the harvest, too impatient to wait. You chased promises instead of commitment. You closed chapters before reading the verses.

And sometimes, when you close a chapter, even the smallest sentence becomes a dream.

There’s a word for it. It’s not regret. It’s something worse. For some, it’s youth. For others, it’s time. I couldn’t tell the difference. I only know that I was young. And I could have bought the house. Maintained it. Cared for it. But I was too ignorant or too proud to know better.

Maybe that’s the cruel truth about youth, you don’t realize what mattered until it slips through your fingers. Only when it’s gone do you see it for what it was.

People see the beauty now, from the outside. But only those who lived within those walls know the truth. They know the fear of stepping on the wrong floorboard, of brushing against fragile walls, of waking monsters hiding in shadows. They know what it means to live inside a house without a roof, unsure when the next storm would hit, or whether you’d survive the winter. They’ve breathed the stiffness in the air beneath cobwebs spun from neglect and isolation.

And yet... all it took was someone to see its worth. To put up a roof. To mend the garden. To stay.

Only then did the house reveal its true soul. Only then did it become something worth keeping.