The tornado had destroyed the entire neighborhood but left my house untouched.
Your move, writer.
There's the survivor's guilt route: instead of relief, the narrator feels a creeping wrongness, walking through a flattened block where every neighbor lost something, unable to explain why fate spared them. Grief and shame tangle together, maybe ending with them giving away half of what they own because keeping it feels obscene.
Or lean into eerie mystery — the house isn't just untouched, it's suspiciously untouched, curtains still, dust undisturbed, like the storm bent around it on purpose. Something in that house wanted to survive.
There's also quiet gratitude and community: the house becomes the block's shelter, its kitchen table suddenly feeding twelve families, the narrator realizing untouched was never the point — useful is.
Or go tender and small: a child in the family, too young to understand loss, just thrilled their treehouse survived, forcing the adults to hold devastation and joy at once.
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