Driftwood Lane wasn’t a street people stumbled onto. It was narrow and sandy, half hidden beneath sea oats. Some homes had been rebuilt into bright vacation rentals with glass balconies and outdoor showers.

Others looked like they’d been waiting decades for someone to decide their fate.

Number 127 belonged to the second group. I parked where a driveway had probably once existed; sand had reclaimed most of it, weeds pushing through broken shells.

The cabin sat behind a leaning fence, its faded blue paint curling away, porch steps sagging, roofline warped by years of weather. Two front windows were boarded shut.

A rusted mailbox hung open like a weary mouth.

A shack. Bradley’s word echoed in my mind. For a moment I stayed behind the wheel, embarrassed. Helen had left me this — a forgotten cabin on a sandy road — while our son inherited the house, the furniture, and a villa overseas that had somehow become the family prize, though I’d never liked it.