The Last House on Sycamore Ridge
By Olivia Salter
The road into Sycamore Ridge gleamed beneath the fading sunset, asphalt dark and slick from the afternoon rain. Young maples stood in perfect rows, half-built houses framing the skyline like promises still under construction.
Marcus drove slowly down the cul-de-sac, the soft hum of his midnight-blue Jaguar blending with the evening chorus of crickets. He paused at the curve before his house, feeling the familiar thrill of arrival. This was his home, the first fully finished house in the subdivision and every inch of it had been his choice, his design, his money. No mortgage. No debt. No compromise. Years of strategy, promotions, and disciplined work had bought him this place, and it was perfect.
Then he noticed the silver SUV in his rearview mirror. Sleek, shiny, new. At first, he thought nothing of it; Sycamore Ridge was still attracting buyers. But as he turned left onto Maple View, it turned too. Right onto Willow Bend? Same thing.
By the time he reached his driveway at the very end of the cul-de-sac, the SUV had settled directly in front of his house.
The passenger window rolled down. A blonde woman leaned out, ponytail tight, lips pressed in a practiced line.
“May I help you?” she called, voice crisp, clipped.
Marcus lifted an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“This is my house,” she said, firmer now, as if repeating it would make it true. “May I help you?”
Marcus let the corner of a smile tug at his lips. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the remote on the visor.
A soft click echoed, followed by the low mechanical groan of his garage door rising. Inside: his golf clubs, neon gtreen motorcycle, tools neatly arranged, the canvas he’d been meaning to hang in the living room. His life, unmistakable and undeniable.
He laid his head on the headrest, hands relaxed, and let his eyes meet theirs.
“Whose house did you say this was again?”
The woman blinked rapidly, eyes flicking to the open garage. The man in the driver’s seat gripped the wheel, shifting uncomfortably. Their confidence crumbled as the truth hit them.
“I… I think we’ll go now,” she stammered.
Marcus’s smile widened just slightly, enough to show he noticed their discomfort. “That would be wise,” he said, calm and deliberate.
The SUV backed out hastily, tires splashing water down the cul-de-sac, disappearing into the gathering dusk.
Marcus stood in his driveway, the silence pressing in. For a moment, the pride he’d felt about this place dimmed, smudged by the reminder that even here, behind a paid mortgage, an impressive job title, and good credit, some people still couldn’t imagine a man like him belonging.
Marcus pressed the remote again. The garage door descended with a satisfying thud, sealing away the confrontation. The quiet of the street felt absolute, like the world itself had exhaled.
He walked to the porch, paused at the door, and unwrapped the new welcome mat, smoothing it with deliberate care.
He walked to the porch, paused at the door, and unwrapped the new welcome mat, smoothing it with deliberate care.
Through the window, the streetlight flickered on, bathing the cul-de-sac in soft gold. For the first time in weeks, Marcus let himself linger on the sight: this was his, undeniably his. Every polished step, every shadowed corner, every echo of laughter yet to come belonged to him.
He stepped inside, the scent of new wood and leather wrapping around him like a cloak. Closing the door, he whispered, almost to himself, “Yes. I belong.”
And this time, he truly did.
He stepped inside, the scent of new wood and leather wrapping around him like a cloak. Closing the door, he whispered, almost to himself, “Yes. I belong.”
And this time, he truly did.
.webp)
