The Mills

It was the seventh town.

The seventh move in a month.

And, once again, you didn't feel settled.

There were still boxes sitting unopened in the corner of the living room, their contents apparently having decided that they were quite comfortable where they were. You hadn't bothered unpacking most of them anyway. What was the point?

You'd probably be leaving again soon.

You always did.

You'd learned not to get too attached to places. Houses came and went. Towns blurred together. Addresses became little more than numbers you'd eventually have to remember long enough to give someone when they asked where you lived.

Sometimes you wondered how many addresses you'd had over the years.

You'd stopped counting after fifty.

This house just didn't fit.

You couldn't explain exactly why. There wasn't anything particularly wrong with it. The heating worked. The windows shut properly. The neighbours seemed friendly enough.

It just wasn't right.

With a sigh, you picked up your cracked phone and pressed the power button.

The screen flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then finally came to life.

The phone was old, cracked across the top corner and, technically, hadn't been connected to a proper mobile service for nearly a month.

It still worked well enough for what you needed.

You opened your messages and typed out something you had written many times before.

"Hi. Sorry, but I don't think this place is going to work out for me. I'll have everything cleared out as soon as I can."

You stared at it for a moment.

Then you added:

"Thanks for understanding."

Send.

You leaned back and waited.

The reply came surprisingly quickly.

"No problem. Good luck finding somewhere."

You smiled faintly.

That was the thing about landlords.

After a while, they stopped asking questions.

Some probably thought you were difficult.

Others probably thought you were unlucky.

A few had simply wished you well and moved on.

You preferred those ones.

You closed the messages and opened the app you'd come to rely on more than anything else.

Shiftans.

The site for people who never seemed to stay anywhere for very long.

The familiar loading screen appeared, followed by the little notification chime.

One notification.

Then another.

You ignored the first one.

The second caught your attention.

A previous landlord has listed a property again.

You frowned.

You opened it.

The photograph appeared.

You knew that house.

You were sure you did.

The faded blue front door.

The crooked fence.

The little window above the porch.

You stared at the screen.

"When was that?"

You scrolled down.

The listing looked familiar.

Very familiar.

You remembered staying there.

For how long?

A few months, perhaps.

You scrolled further.

Previous stay: 2 days.

You stopped.

Two days?

You rubbed your eyes and looked again.

Two days.

That couldn't be right.

Could it?

You remembered packing your things.

You remembered the kitchen.

You remembered complaining about the shower.

You remembered leaving.

But two days?

Maybe it had been another house.

Another town.

Another move.

After a while, they all started to look the same.

You backed out of the listing.

There were dozens of other properties waiting.

Dozens of other places you could call home.

At least for a little while.

You began scrolling.

You weren't looking for somewhere perfect.

You'd given up on that a long time ago.

You were just looking for somewhere that felt right.

Somewhere you might actually unpack the boxes.

Somewhere you might stay longer than a month.

Somewhere that might finally become—

Home.

Then you saw it.

A listing you'd never seen before.

33 Mills Street.

You stopped scrolling.

You didn't know why.

You just stared at the name.

Then, slowly, you tapped it.

The screen loaded up a simple-looking house.

Nothing special.

Two floors. A small front garden. A driveway just wide enough for a car. The brickwork was a little weathered, but otherwise it looked well maintained.

You scrolled through the photographs.

Living room.

Kitchen.

Bathroom.

Two bedrooms.

A small garden at the back.

It was... nice.

Not amazing.

Not terrible.

Just nice.

Exactly the sort of place you'd normally scroll past.

You looked at the price.

You blinked.

Then looked again.

"That's cheap."

Cheap enough that you could afford it without having to worry too much about how long you stayed.

You checked the description.

33 Mills Street — Available immediately.

Furnished.

No minimum tenancy.

That last part caught your attention.

No minimum tenancy.

You've seen those words before, but usually followed by subject to landlord approval or short-term only.

This one simply said:

No minimum tenancy.

You continued reading.

The landlord had barely written anything.

Quiet property in a quiet street. Suitable for anyone looking for somewhere to stay.

That was it.

You frowned.

It was almost too simple.

You scrolled back up and looked at the photographs again.

The living room had an old sofa.

The kitchen had wooden cupboards.

One of the bedrooms had a single bed pushed against the wall.

There was nothing remarkable about it.

And yet you kept looking.

You couldn't explain why.

Maybe it was the price

Maybe it was the location.

Maybe you were simply tired of moving.

You checked the address.

33 Mills Street.

You typed it into the search bar.

A map appeared.

You zoomed in.

Mills Street was in a town you'd never visited before, the town's name "The Mills"

At least, you didn't think you'd visited it.

You stared at the map for a few seconds.

Then you noticed something.

The town wasn't very far away.

In fact, it was closer than most of the places you'd lived during the last month.

You looked around your half-unpacked living room.

Seven towns.

Seven moves.

One month.

You sighed.

"Why not?"

You pressed Contact Landlord.

For once, you didn't think about how long you'd stay.

You just wanted to see this house.