You lie back in the grass, and the sky opens above you in a slow, uneasy drift of clouds. They gather into shapes that almost resemble ruined towers, a narrow bridge, and a pair of watchful eyes before the wind smears them apart. The open field feels larger from the ground, as if the earth has stepped back to give you room to think. Somewhere near the white house, a board creaks softly, though no door moves.

The sunlight warms your face, but the breeze carries a chill that does not belong to the weather. It brushes past the mailbox, rattles the latch, and then fades toward the house like a guide refusing to be seen. You remain in the grass, half dreamer and half trespasser, with the boarded front door still waiting beyond the lawn. The world is quiet enough to hear your own curiosity growing teeth.