Heather brushed her hands on her jeans as she stood before the farmhouse. The building was nothing like she had imagined. Its wooden exterior was splintered and weather-beaten, with shutters hanging crookedly from the windows. The paint, what little was left, had faded to an indistinct grey, peeling in uneven patches. Weeds surrounded the perimeter, pushing through cracks in the foundation, and the front porch sagged ominously, as though it might collapse under any weight. Nearby, an old, rusted mailbox hung precariously on its post, its door swinging in the breeze. The knocked-down sign at the entrance to the road had been her first clue that this place was a "no go."
She scoffed as she took in the desolation. Of all places in the world, Lily picks an abandoned farmhouse. Her lips curled in faint disdain. She couldn't have chosen something dramatic, like a yacht or a sleek city loft?
