Kurt knew it was cliché. He knew it, and he didn't care. In fact, cliché was what he wanted. As he stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the large, looming house in front of him, he knew he'd made the right choice. This was like something out of a Nicholas Sparks book, minus the romance because he was definitely not looking for that right now. But a young man with a grudge against the world, moving back to town to care for his father, buying an old, dilapidated house on the lake, and doing work he didn't love to make ends meet? Yeah. That was straight from between the covers of a Nicholas Sparks novel, as cliché as he could get. That was fine, though. Cliché was fine as long as it meant he could focus on himself and feel like he was coming home.
That was what had been missing for the last several months; that was what he'd been chasing. Now, staring at the front door of his new acquisition, watching as flecks of a nasty beige paint flaked off and fell on the floor of the dust-covered front porch, he knew he was one step closer to what he'd been missing. He could feel the world shifting around him, feel the air changing, lightening, lifting off his shoulders.
He smiled, sighed, and took a few steps forward, mounting the front porch and turning the knob of the front door. It's time, Kurt, he told himself. It's time to go home.