Then I got out of the car.
The driveway gravel shifted under my shoes as I walked toward the house, and the sound of it was the only evidence that I was moving. Everything else felt suspended, the way air feels before a storm, charged with potential, holding its breath. Up close, the stone walls were even more impressive than they had appeared from the gate, each block fitted with a care that spoke of craft rather than speed, of someone who had decided that this thing was worth doing properly.
The front porch ran nearly the full width of the house, its wide plank boards the color of weathered silver, and along its railings the climbing roses had been trained into arches that framed the doorway like something deliberate. Like a welcome.
There was a wooden bench on the left side of the porch, simple and well made, positioned to face the valley below. On the bench was a folded blanket, pale blue wool, and beside it a terracotta pot containing a single orchid in full bloom, its flowers the exact shade of deep coral that I had always loved and could never find in any nursery close enough to buy reliably.
My breath caught.
I stood at the edge of the porch and looked at the orchid for a long time.
