He kept his "land money" in a heavy cedar box under his floorboards. It wasn’t just paper; it was thousands of hours of inhaled iron dust and skipped meals. Every time the box grew heavier, his world grew larger.
He was broke now—completely penniless—but for the first time in his life, he felt like he finally had enough room to breathe.
"A mortgage means the bank owns the sunrise," Elias replied softly. "I wanted to make sure it belonged to me before I saw it."
"You know, Elias, a mortgage would have been much faster," Marcus said, counting the weathered bills.
When the deed was finally signed, Elias didn't go out for a steak dinner or call a friend. He drove to the edge of the overgrown orchard, walked to the highest point where an old, gnarled apple tree still clung to life, and sat down. He pressed his palms flat against the cold, damp earth.