Hello! My name is Egor, and I consider myself someone with a creative mindset. Apart from studying technology and working on complex technical projects, I enjoy finding time for my hobbies. One of them is writing stories. It helps me relax, express my thoughts and ideas, and sometimes even rethink the world around me. Here is one of my stories, told from the perspective of an acquaintance of mine who is much older. His story offers a lot to reflect upon.
I grew up in a village that could barely be called one. A few dozen houses, a shop, a school, and a bus stop — that was all our little world had to offer. Our house stood at the edge of the forest, creaky and tilted, with a roof that leaked every autumn. But to me, it was an entire world. As a child, I felt as though its walls could protect me from anything. Here, under the caring eyes of my mother and the stern but loving voice of my father, I felt safe.
My father often said that a house is more than just a place to live. "A house is your life. If you build it with your soul, it will always be strong. But if you neglect it, it will crumble, no matter how sturdy it was in the beginning." Back then, these words seemed like nothing more than poetic expressions. I believed a house was just walls, a roof, and furniture. I was young, and my view of life was straightforward, even a bit naive.
After school, I wanted only one thing: to leave as far away as possible. I longed for big cities, lights, and people. I dreamed of escaping the monotony of the village, where everyone knew your face and whispered about your every step. Leaving seemed like the only way to start my life. And so, I left.
The city welcomed me in a way I hadn’t expected. I thought it would open doors to success, that I’d quickly find my place. Instead, I ended up in a small, cold room on the outskirts, with bare walls and windows overlooking a grim courtyard. I found work quickly, but it brought neither joy nor satisfaction. My days were monotonous: crowded metro rides in the morning, endless tasks during the day, and loneliness at night. People in the city seemed cold and indifferent, and I felt like a small cog in a massive machine.
Years went by. I switched jobs a few times, started earning more, and even managed to afford an apartment in the city center. Outwardly, everything looked fine: a respectable job, a new car, a circle of acquaintances. But every evening, coming home, I felt emptiness. My life was like that apartment — stylish but soulless. I had no roots, no connection to the home I had left behind, thinking I didn’t need it.
One night, as I sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea, the phone rang. It was an old friend from the village. He told me that my father had passed away. I felt something break inside me. I wasn’t ready for this. My father had always seemed like someone who would live forever. His strong hands, his wise words, his habit of frowning when things went wrong — all of it was a part of my world.
I returned to the village to say goodbye to him. The house greeted me with silence. It was even more dilapidated than I remembered. The roof had caved in, the garden was overgrown, and the walls were cracked with age. But standing on the doorstep, I suddenly realized that this house was the only place where I had ever truly felt alive. Here were all my memories, all my roots.
After the funeral, I stayed in the village. People looked at me with surprise. They couldn’t understand why I would return. After all, I had a life in the city, a career, and prospects. But I knew I had to stay. The house needed me, and I needed it. I decided to restore it, not just as a building but as a symbol of my ability to rebuild my life from scratch.
The work was hard. At first, it seemed like I had taken on an impossible task. I woke up at dawn, cleared piles of debris, reinforced the foundation, and replaced rotten beams. Friends from the city laughed at me: "You’re not a builder, why are you doing this?" But I kept going. Each day brought small victories: a new window frame, a repaired roof, saplings planted in the garden.
As I worked, I found old things: my parents’ letters, childhood toys, family photographs. These discoveries seemed to breathe life back into the house, restoring its soul. I began to understand that a house isn’t just walls. It’s memory, warmth, labor. It’s everything you invest in it with love.
Several years later, I finished the work. The house became more than just a place to live. It became my refuge, my symbol. One day, sitting on the porch, I heard children laughing. They were my children, playing in the garden I had planted with my own hands. My wife brought me a cup of tea, and as I watched them, I realized: I had found what I had been searching for all my life.
Life isn’t just a series of events. It’s the choices we make. And a home isn’t just walls. It’s what you build with love and perseverance, so that one day you can pass it on.
