There was a neighborhood in Tilberg that was built on the image of perfection. Copied and pasted houses lined this certain street. Not a single car left an eyesore in any of the driveways. Every mailbox occupied the same corner of the sidewalks. Somewhere along that road, a big white house was nestled between its delusive partners. All of them wore the same colors from black rooftop to dull cement foundation. The only unique thing about the abodes was the golden numbers that lined vertically next to their blank entryways.
Nathan stepped out of the house numbered One-Two-Three-Nine and slammed the door behind him. A pastel knickknack that read "Welcome" in country style letters slapped against the white surface from the commotion. The thick hemp that sprouted from the bottom of the wooden plaque swayed tiny bronze bells into the door. They continued to jingle as the teenager walked down the granite pathway and into the driveway.
A destination was set in the young man's mind: Tilberg Hig