They moved in on a Saturday. Two suitcases. A rescued dog. A paint splattered easel. The house didn't ask for more. Two bedrooms, a cozy den and one great big sunshine filled living space for dining, painting, dreaming and making things. Ink, thread, scraps of ideas. A bath with a cast iron tub and original blue tile, imperfectly beautiful. The screened porch became the favorite spot for morning coffee, afternoon sketches, arguments, apologies, crickets and laughter. At night, the oaks whispered. Deep, slow rustling. Like the house was breathing. Friends came. Parked on the wide parking pad. Stayed too long. Brought figs, homemade casseroles, stories that grew louder as the stars came out. Seasons passed. The garden took root. Tomatoes, cucumbers, arugula and also wildflowers that no one planted. The big room became a gallery. The basement with its sturdy granite walls gave them extra storage for homemade canned goods, pickled veggies and all their holiday decor. Life stretched in quiet ways. They walked to the lake when the sun turned the pavement soft and the air hung heavy, thick as syrup. They peeled off their clothes, sand in toes letting the water take over - cool on skin, floating free. Splashing. Laughed without trying. Lake water doesn't fix things. But it forgets with you. The house never asked for attention. It stood. Held them in storms and sunlight. That's the beauty about places like this. They don't perform. They anchor. They keep you safe. Warm. Whole. There was so much love here. It lived in the walls. In the garden beds. In the worn floorboards creaking under foot. Love cooked dinners, painted ceilings, danced barefoot in the kitchen. And now she waits. For the next story, the next family to call her home.
