Work Text:
The place certainly was a shithole these days, that was for sure. Growing up, before Jango’s murder, Boba had seen many happy home vids and holos of this place, the beach house his parents would vacation to whenever they needed a break. Back then, it was homey and, for lack of a better description, safe looking. Now . . . well . . .
No one had been inside for years. Before now, Boba could never bring himself to visit the place that so drastically changed the course of his father’s life. Local hearsay was that the little cottage was haunted, so it never changed hands. That, and the fact that it’d been left to Boba after his father’s death.
Curtains were animal-gnawed, the bathroom door hung brokenly off the hinges, and the furniture was all damaged by exposure. He thought he could see a darker spot on the floor. He didn’t want to think about what that stain could have been.
Oh, and there was a massive karking hole in the front wall where a speeder had apparently busted through the wall on that last, fateful day.
Just standing in this place, Boba could understand why it was believed that this house was haunted. What did you want me to do with this place, Buir? Boba wondered. Shaking his head of the thought, he sighed through his nose.
He would sift through the scattered belongings to see if there was anything worth keeping, he decided. Then he’d gut the place and make it his own.
Would you have liked that? The question drifted through his mind. There was no way for him to know the answer, of course; all he and his brothers knew about you were the stories Jango told. But once he started the renovation, he liked to think the answer would have been yes. He kept the holos on the walls along with the art his parents had chosen so long before to keep the good memories of this place alive, to keep the ghosts of laughs the pair of you might have shared alive despite all the change and trauma.
The house may have been haunted, but maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.