We reached the cottage house after an hour and a half that somehow felt like a year. The journey had been long, but the anticipation made time stretch indefinitely. The gravel crunched under the tires as he pulled up onto the porch, and we both stepped out of the car. The crisp morning air brushed against my face, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and blooming flowers. Petals were scattered along the stone walkway, some still in vibrant bloom, their colors defiant against the approach of winter. I silently hoped they would survive the cold.
Above the doorway, delicate wind charms swayed gently, catching the sunlight and creating a soft, twinkling melody that made the porch feel alive. I took a step forward, taking it all in. “Is this… your summer house?” I asked, my voice tinged with
