A worker walked across the fresh dirt with a seed spreader strapped to his chest.

He turned the hand crank, sending a shower of native Texas rye and wildflower seeds onto the earth.

I stood at the edge of the property line, near the old oak tree my father had planted.

Without the house blocking the view, you could see the entire valley.

The hills rose up in blue waves against the horizon.

The air smelled of fresh dirt, cedar, and rain.

“It looks like it used to,” I whispered.

“It looks better,” Chloe said, standing beside me.

***

Friday morning was cold and clear.

The wind blew hard from the north, rustling the dry grass at the edges of the lot.

The land was completely empty.

There was no driveway, no concrete, no glass, and no steel.

There was only a wide, freshly graded field of dark soil.

I walked to the center of the lot, where the front door of the house had once been.

My boots sank slightly into the soft earth.

I carried a heavy wooden surveyor’s stake and a mallet.