"I told him about it."
"About what?"
"The house. My grandma used to live there."
"How did he know where it was?"
"I don't know. I don't remember telling him the exact place it was."
Well, dear Will, you're right, you didn't tell me that exact address. It wasn't that hard to find it though, since there were only two empty buildings in Falmouth and only one was by the beach. I guess I got lucky.
When I left, I at first didn't know where to go. I didn't actually know where I wanted to go, but than I remembered you telling me about your grandmothers funeral and about how your dad inherited the house. I'm sorry for just ... moving in.
Falmouth is a small place. Like 2000 people I guess, mostly just snobby businessman and their housewives. But as soon as I entered the town, I knew I belonged. I can't even explain how I knew, but it just felt so right.
YOU ARE READING
The Boy Who Died
Teen FictionJack drops out of school, runs away from home and moves into an abandoned building by the seaside. There he feels free. There he makes music; sings and plays guitar. Sleeps, paints and dances around on his own. On the neighbouring grounds he meets...
