The sun is sinking into the fields behind the barn, the sky through the huge château windows turning the deep rosy gold of early autumn. I stand at the window and watch Tim walking across the lawn towards the atelier. He is searching through the huge bunch of keys in his fist for the ones that will allow him to lock up the many stable doors.
He disappears behind the ancient cedar tree and I’m alone in the house, all by myself. The room around me suddenly feels too big, it’s full of furniture but none of it is mine. In the beautiful old wall cupboards with their flaking paint and shelves warped with age, are another family’s things; crockery, glasses, old bread baskets, books, pieces of their history left behind, gifted to us a part of the sale.
I feel like I’m squatting in someone else’s house, wandering through their ghosts and memories, when in fact this château now belongs to us. My skin prickles, the hairs on my neck lifting and I’m unsure if it’s excitement or fear or both. What I do know is that the room needs to feel smaller, less overwhelming.
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