The Project || 18+ [ON HOLD]

3.

The sun is still a whisper on the horizon, yet I'm wide awake, the anticipation for the day's work buzzing in my veins like an electric current. Today, the dumpster comes, and the big renovations begins.

I pull up to the old farmhouse, the gravel crunching beneath my tires, a familiar welcome. I park and step out, my boots settling on the soft earth as I take in the quiet morning. The air is crisp, the kind of freshness that you only get in the early hours. It's laced with the scent of dew-covered grass and the faint, earthy musk of the farmhouse.

I unlock the door, the hinges complaining with a familiar creak, and step into the dim interior. Today, I'll start with clearing out the debris and old furniture, making way for the new bones of this home.

As I move through the rooms, my flashlight cuts through the darkness, illuminating dust particles dancing like tiny fairies in the air. The old furniture looks almost ghostly under the cover of dust. My fingers trail across a dusty tabletop, feeling the grit of ages, imagining the laughter, the stories that once filled this space.

I start upstairs, planning to work my way down. The bedrooms are cloaked in shadows, the light from my flashlight cutting through the gloom. I pull open the curtains, inviting in the first timid rays of sunlight. The rooms feel less haunted in the daylight.

I don't work for long before I hear the sound of a truck rumbling up the driveway. I peer out the window, watching as the Willow Waste Management truck backs in, a large dumpster in tow. The truck stops, and Hank hops out, waving up at me.

I hurry downstairs and out the door, meeting him at the truck. "Morning, Hank. Thanks for being so prompt," I say, shaking his hand.

"Not a problem, Elora. Where do you want this bad boy?" He gestures towards the dumpster, ready to follow my lead.

"Over there, please," I point to a spot by the side of the house. "Close enough to be handy, but out of the way."

Hank nods and maneuvers the truck, expertly placing the dumpster. The hydraulic whine of the truck as it lowers the dumpster breaks the morning stillness, a loud yet welcome disruption.

"All set," Hank announces, hopping back out of the truck. "Just give us a call when it's ready for pick-up."

"Will do. Thanks again, Hank," I say, watching him drive away. The dumpster sits there, a hulking metal behemoth, but to me, it's a vessel of hope – ready to take away the old and make room for the new.

I waste no time. I begin hauling out broken chairs, splintered tables, and tattered rugs that have been worn down to mere threads. Each item I heave into the dumpster feels cathartic, like I'm throwing away years of neglect and decay. The physical work is exhausting, but with each piece removed, I feel lighter, more determined.

By mid-morning, I'm covered in dust and sweat. My muscles are aching, but my spirit is undeterred. Taking a break, I slump down on the porch steps, gulping water from my bottle. The house, now partly emptied, feels different - it's as if it's breathing easier, ready for the next step.