Note from Steph: I took a week off because I was at a conference, and I think I'll continue posting flash fiction three times per week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Hope you're enjoying it!
“As you can see,” I say, sliding the photos across my desk, “it’s a lovely three-bedroom Colonial with original hardwood floors and a recently updated kitchen.”
Updated kitchen, yes. It took five years to complete because the workers could only get in at night. Sigh. It’s been my most difficult temporally complicated property yet. I need to sell it.
The couple — the Harrises — lean forward, exactly in sync. They do everything in sync. It’s why they’re perfect for this house.
“The price seems too good,” Mrs. Harris says, tapping the listing with one perfectly manicured nail.
Because the house only exists twelve hours a day, I think.
“The sellers are motivated,” I say instead. Standard real estate speak for ‘it needs to go or I’ll be fired.’
“Could we see it this afternoon?” Mr. Harris asks. “Say around two?”
I wince. This is always the hard part. “Unfortunately, the house only accepts viewings after sunset.” I hold up a hand before they can protest. “I know, I know, it sounds strange. But trust me, you want to see this one in its natural habitat.”
They exchange that look couples get when they think their real estate agent might be crazy. I’m used to it. You don’t specialize in temporally displaced properties without developing a thick skin.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say, pulling out my special business cards — the ones printed for reading only after dark. “Meet me there at 6:47 PM. That’s when the house likes to make its best first impression.”
The streetlights flicker to life as the Harrises pull up in their sensible hybrid. Right on time. The house shimmers into existence between 443 and 447 Maple Street, its windows already glowing a warm welcome.
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Harris says, squinting at the house. “Was it… was it not here when we drove past earlier today?”
“Must have been the trees blocking the view,” I lie, leading them up the front walk. The porch light hums to life as we approach. Good. The house likes them.
Inside, the hardwood floors gleam like they’re remembering sunlight. The Harrises drift from room to room while I recite my usual spiel about square footage and original crown molding. I don’t mention how the walk-in closet sometimes walks out, or that the kitchen window shows a different season depending on what you’re cooking.
“The previous owners,” Mr. Harris starts, then pauses. “Why did they leave?”
“They were morning people,” I say. Which is true. Hard to live in a house that doesn’t exist until sunset.
Mrs. Harris runs her hand along a doorframe, and the house lets out a contented sigh I pretend not to hear. “It feels like…”
“Home?” I suggest.
“Like it’s been waiting for us.”
I smile. The contract’s already materializing in my briefcase, the ink darkening with the sky outside.
Sometimes the house really does know best.
Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.
Listen to this story on YouTube at https://youtu.be/NFvBkz4VkYQ
