There has indeed always been a sense of magic in the old house. Especially at dusk, as the setting sun steeps the estate in golden hues. The land was wild and luscious, seemingly unmaintained, embellished with wild chamomile and daisies. History wrote itself into every wall, every blade of dense southern grass, every calcified window and crackling chip of paint held, each in its right, a weightiness, an undeniable depth of bygone years. Martha stood in the old servants kitchen and sipped her coffee long and thoughtfully. The chairs weathered by time and countless night family sat on those cushions. Laughter still echoed in the rooms, ricocheting  off picture frames and pinging off Marthas near deaf ear-drums. She felt the years in the walls, she felt the years in her bones. How she would miss this home.