The gates are open, which is either an invitation or the absence of one.
Ancient oaks arch over the drive from both sides, dropping leaves faster than the wind can clear them. Mist moves between the trunks. At the far end of the avenue, past the iron gates, a gothic manor waits with a few windows already lit, as though it knew someone was coming before they decided to come.
This is two hours of the walk up, not the arrival. Low strings, a solo cello, wind that never quite settles. The particular anticipation of a threshold you have not crossed yet.
Made for the first chapter of something. The one where you still do not know if this is a good idea.
