[Emma's POV]
The farmhouse, with its sagging porch and wild-rose embrace, felt like a dream I was terrified of waking from. The air around it hummed softly with the music of bees and the distant whir of cicadas, and the cracked white paint on its siding glowed faintly gold beneath the rising sun.
It wasn’t perfect—nothing about it was—but its imperfection made it feel alive, real in a way that marble floors and chandeliers never could. I could almost feel the pulse of the place beneath my fingertips when I brushed the weathered railing, as if the house itself remembered laughter, storms, and love.
The morning after our arrival, I slipped out early, drawn by the shimmer of light through the trees and the promise of solitude. My boots sank into damp moss as I followed a narrow trail, the
