The car wound higher into the hills until the road ran out and Jolene Sparks was left to finish the journey on foot, rolling her battered suitcase through a tunnel of ancient trees. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and distant rain, sunlight dappled on mossy stones. It felt less like arriving at a destination and more like stumbling into a world that had waited for her, just her, all along.
At the top of the hill stood the mansion. Larkspur House. The letters on the gate were half-choked with ivy, the ironwork curling like sleeping dragons. She hesitated at the threshold—her shoes, the city dust still clinging to them, suddenly unworthy of this place.
Before she could lose her nerve, the front door swung open. A man with silver hair and a waistcoat that might've been in fashion a hundred years ago smiled down at her. His eyes twinkled with secrets.
"You must be Ms. Sparks," he said, bowing just enough to make Jolene blush. "I'm Harrington, the caretaker. Welcome to Larkspur House. The housekeeper's just finishing the biscuits, and your room's at the top of the east wing. I trust you'll find it comfortable. And if anything feels… odd, do remember, old houses have old ways."
Inside, the mansion was a cathedral to vanished eras. Light spilled through stained glass, painting the marble floors in peacock blue and gold. Everywhere, echoes: laughter drifting down forgotten corridors, a sudden waft of roses from nowhere at all. Portraits gazed down at her, their eyes warm or watchful, she couldn't decide which.
Mr. Harrington guided her up a curving staircase, his shoes never seeming to make a sound. "Your suite, Miss Jolene. The corner with the best view. You'll have all the privacy you wish."
The room was vast, with a sofa, a writing desk, a wardrobe older than Redlands City, and, best of all, a balcony that looked out over the city, the sun shimmering off the distant towers. She set her suitcase down and ran her fingers along the cool stone balustrade. For the first time since her plane touched down, she felt a pang of something like hope.
That night, she couldn't sleep. The mansion creaked and sighed as if exhaling dreams. Outside, the city's lights blinked, stars distant but stubborn. Jolene drifted, half-awake, into the embrace of the house.
In the space between waking and sleep, she heard music—the kind of music that made you want to laugh and cry at once. Somewhere below, a man was singing in a language she didn't know. The melody curled up the staircase, slipped beneath her door, and wrapped around her heart.