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Chapter 1: The Summer House Is Open
She arrives before the heat sets in, when the mornings are still cool and the days feel full of promise. The house welcomes her back like an old friend; quiet, familiar, waiting. The doors are thrown open and light pours in, brushing softly against pale walls and waking the space from its gentle slumber. Everything feels possible here. Quiet mornings, open windows, and time that stretches gently forward.
It’s a world paused between seasons. The linens are crisp, the shelves half-empty, the corners bare but expectant. The space holds its breath, waiting to be filled with the slow beauty of the season: flowers collected on morning walks, books brought and forgotten, shoes strewn about by the door. Each object will arrive in its own time, part of the home’s quiet transformation.
There’s a hush to it all. The kind of hush that only lives in places left untouched for a while. It clings to the air, to the shadowed corners and sun-warmed tiles. Dust glows in the morning light. The rooms carry the scent of stone and linen and something green—something alive and just beginning. It’s peaceful, but not still.
This is the start. A blank canvas. The summer house is open.