The house rises, stone upon stone, each block holding in its grey solidity a murmur of centuries. The air about it trembles faintly, as if the trees leaned in to listen to some secret spoken only once, long ago. Those windows, narrow and darkened by iron lattice, gaze not outward but inward, to a chamber of shadows, where footsteps must echo on worn floors and silence grows thick in the corners. The roof slants sharply, a triangle against the pale sky, its ridges like the folds of some vast, old cloak. Time presses against these walls, not with violence but with persistence, like rain, like breath, like the quiet wearing-down of all things. And yet, there is a steadfastness here, a defiance too: red stone warming where sunlight touches it, the archway holding fast against the encroaching years. One imagines voices—low, thoughtful voices—rising in these rooms, lives passing across the mullioned glass in fleeting patterns, gone as quickly as cloud-shadow on the lawn. The house, in its stillness, gathers these remnants, keeps them, turns them into silence. And so it endures: not merely a dwelling of stone, but a vessel of memory, layered, waiting, watching, refusing to be forgotten.

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