Peggy stopped and sat in the car, almost afraid to look up.
She imagined Catherine’s voice: an old falling apart house in the middle of nowhere.
She took a breath, lifted her eyes, and froze.
The house was not falling apart.
It sat in a clearing surrounded by oak trees like sentinels. Old fieldstone walls, two stories, steep slate roof that looked intact. Leaded glass windows framed with white trim. A heavy oak door under a small covered portico with carved supports.
Ivy climbed portions of the stone in a way that looked intentional, not neglectful.
The grounds were wild, yes—overgrown formal gardens, stone pathways half-swallowed by grass, roses blooming untamed, a dry fountain standing elegant and silent like it was waiting.
It looked less like a ruin and more like a secret garden time had tried to reclaim but failed to conquer.
Peggy sat breathing shallowly, staring, when she heard footsteps on the dirt road.
An elderly woman approached—mid-seventies perhaps, walking with surprising purpose. She carried a wicker basket covered with a checkered cloth.
When she reached the car, she didn’t introduce herself with hesitation. She spoke with certainty.
“You’re Peggy,” the woman said.