His first stop was the . It was a cathedral of fluorescent lights and orange aprons. He walked down Aisle 14, where doors were lined up like soldiers. They were sturdy, sure, but they all felt... anonymous. Elias touched a fiberglass slab that looked like wood but felt like a cooler. "It’s efficient," the clerk said. Elias nodded, but his house was built in 1920. It didn't need "efficient"; it needed a soul.

Finally, he found a tucked behind the train tracks. The air smelled of cedar shavings and linseed oil. The owner, Sarah, didn't show him a catalog; she asked to see a photo of his house.

That winter, the wind still blew, but the only thing Elias heard was the sound of silence.