Beneath the Idaho Sky

De: Lindsey Rivers

Narrado por: Virtual Voice

And here it was. An inheritance. A house. In a town called Willow Creek. It was absurd, almost comical. A distant, almost forgotten relative leaving her a fixer-upper in the middle of nowhere. But the description, however understated, painted a picture that resonated with a nascent need within her. “Considerable restoration.” “Rustic charm.” These weren’t liabilities; they were blueprints. They were challenges, tangible problems to be solved, problems that didn’t involve the venomous sting of betrayal.

She pictured it, even without seeing it. A place where no one knew her name, where the echoes of Robert’s promises and lies couldn’t follow. A place where the sharp edges of her shattered life might begin to soften. The idea of tackling a project, of applying her skills, her innate understanding of structure and form, to something new, something that was entirely hers, began to take hold. It was a flicker, a tiny ember in the vast, cold emptiness that had consumed her, but it was there.

Joan reread the letter, her fingers tracing the unfamiliar town name. Willow Creek. Idaho. She imagined vast, open spaces, clean air, a sky unburdened by the constant smog of ambition and disappointment. It was a fantasy, she knew, a desperate projection onto a vague inheritance. But the alternative – staying in Seattle, continuing to exist in the ruins of her life, endlessly sifting through the debris of her marriage – was no longer sustainable.

The legalities of the inheritance would be a headache, no doubt. Sorting through probate, dealing with the estate, assessing the property – it would all require energy she felt she barely possessed. But the thought of engaging with something entirely external, something that demanded her intellect and her skills in a way that was purely practical, was strangely alluring. It was a distraction, yes, but a constructive one. A project that wouldn’t be tainted by the personal.

She envisioned the house, not as it was described in the letter, but as it
could be. She saw herself poring over blueprints, even if they were just sketches she drew herself. She saw herself walking through dusty rooms, her architect’s eye assessing structural integrity, imagining where walls could be moved, where light could be let in. It was a way to exert control, a way to build something solid and real when her own life felt so ephemeral, so insubstantial.