![]() ![]() The thin black ribbon of the driveway curved from the distant gate to form a loop in front of the manor itself, feeding elegantly into a slightly wider waiting area at the base of the porch. The grass was perfectly green, the trees clustered around the structure perfectly pruned, and the garden grew in a profusion of colors that normally existed together only in a rainbow, or in a child’s toy box. ![]() The manor sat in the center of what would have been considered a field, had it not been used to frame a private home. Narrate the impossible things, turn them into a story, and they could be controlled. Narration came naturally after a time spent in the company of talking scarecrows or disappearing cats it was, in its own way, a method of keeping oneself grounded, connected to the thin thread of continuity that ran through all lives, no matter how strange they might become. THE HABIT OF NARRATION, of crafting something miraculous out of the commonplace, was hard to break. ![]()
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