For Rell

Because something started in your house that you should know about

Rell,

My name is Jason Laird. My wife Amber and I stayed at your place by the train tracks in Daytona from January 1st to the 15th. The one with the reviews about the trains. I put my headphones on one night while a train rolled through and felt the most profound calm I've had in years. Something in that house cracked something open.

I sat down at a computer in your Airbnb and started building a company. It's now filed patents, trademarks, and generated over $50,000. The Ghost Factory was born by your train tracks. I'm not exaggerating. The company traces back to your house.

I'm writing because a man named Paul Allabaugh lived here in Volusia County. He made wooden rainbow bridges for people whose pets passed on. Handcrafted. Each one different. He couldn't sell them because he had social anxiety so bad his wife had to speak for him. On March 30, Paul died by suicide. His house is full of bridges nobody bought.

We built rainbowbridgehope.com to sell every one and raise $100,000 for his wife Pat Allabaugh and for suicide prevention. Here's where it gets strange: your song “Dulce Cacao.” Amber works with Earth Echo, the cacao company. Cacao keeps threading through this story in ways I can't explain and didn't plan.

One TikTok from you puts Paul's story in front of 2.8 million people. One post. A bridge. His story. The number 988. That's all it takes.

We're featuring your Airbnb on the site as “The House by the Tracks” -- where the mission started. Founding partner. Permanent.

Fifteen minutes. I'll come to you. I want to show you what was born in your house.

Jason Laird | New Smyrna | Amber@VolusiaVoices.com
988.

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If you or someone you know is struggling:

Call or text 988

#SaveOneThenMORE

“No weapon forged against you will prevail.”

Isaiah 54:17

For the makers

When the last bridge sells, the mission doesn't end.

Paul made every bridge by hand. When the last of his finds a home, the inventory is gone — but the grieving pet owners don't stop arriving. The families don't stop needing something to hold.

We're looking for the next maker. A woodworker. A painter. A welder. A potter. A photographer. An illustrator. A sculptor. An artist of any medium who can build something a family keeps on their mantle for twenty years. You don't have to be Paul. Nobody can be. You can be the next chapter — under your own name, your own style, your own hands.

Photographers, illustrators, metalworkers, glass artists, weavers — the medium doesn't matter. The grief doesn't pick a form. Whatever you make, if it can carry someone's love for the animal they lost, this door is yours.

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