Holland
The packhouse isn’t a house; it’s a thesis. A long, low sprawl of river-stone and old timber set back from the road like it knows it’s the last thing you see before “home.” At the end of the circular drive, the porch runs the entire front, wide enough for a parade. Light spills from the windows in those soft rectangles you only get from thick glass and people already inside.
My stomach does its little nervous cat stretch as Remy helps me out of the truck. The silk whispers around my legs; the flats save my ankles from an evening of regret. Remy offers his arm like we rehearsed old-fashioned in the mirror and I take it because I want to, not because I need to. That distinction keeps showing up and sitting beside me like a friend.
“You’re early enough for the bustle,” he murmurs,
