Right, not a dream then, Keisha. This is my real life in full technicolor.
I stretch cautiously, half expecting the house to applaud my awakening with some theatrical display of domestic magic.
Instead, what greets me is the unmistakable scent of fresh coffee drifting up the grand staircase, rich and inviting, as if the house has been waiting patiently for me to stir.
I still mid-stretch, arms raised over my head, fingers spread wide like I’m surrendering to the absurdity of my new reality.
“You are entirely too eager to please,” I inform the ornate ceiling with its painted cherubs and gilded molding.
The house hums faintly in response, a sound that reverberates through the walls and floorboards, like it’s pleased with itself and my grudging acknowledgment of its efforts.
Climbing out of the massive four-poster bed, one leg at a time, because I meant it when I said my body needs time to warm up these days. Thirty-five isn’toldold, but it’s old enough to question whether I can jump to my feet quickly without requiring a trip to the emergency room and an awkward conversation about how I injured myself getting out of bed.
The bathroom is a revelation of white marble and gleaming brass fixtures. I shower, luxuriating in the hot water that flows with perfect pressure, soothing the aching muscles from yesterday’s marathon of activities, the emotional whiplash of inheriting property, meeting three mysterious hotties, and having my car break down in what can only be described as supernatural timing. By the time I pull on a pair of my go-to black leggings and an oversized soft cream sweater that makes me feel wrapped in a cloud, I feel almost human again. Almost.
My reflection in the antique mirror shows a woman still adjusting to her circumstances. Braids hang loose around my shoulders, dark brown skin glows from the hot shower, brown eyes still wary, but no longer lost.
When I descend the sweeping staircase in a sturdy pair of white tennis shoes, the house feels warm and settled around me. Sunlight spills across the wooden banisters in golden pools. The faint scent of lemon furniture polish lingers in the air, and the kitchen greets me with quiet competence, as if it has been preparing for this moment since before dawn.
On the marble counter sits a French press, steam curling lazily from its spout like incense. Beside it waits a delicate porcelain mug, cream-colored with tiny painted roses and I can’t help but stare at the perfectly arranged display.
“Black coffee?” I ask cautiously, as if negotiating with an invisible butler.
The scent in the room intensifies immediately, rich and bold and precisely the kind of dark roast that could wake the dead. I take a deep inhale, sighing in pure pleasure. I smile, remembering the promise I made to myself before I closed my eyes last night. I’m not going to question the magic. I’m going to accept it. This town, this house, my bloodline, it’s all proof that there’s more to the world than I ever allowed myself to believe.
I narrow my eyes at the perfectly prepared coffee setup and chuckle. “Oh, you’re flexing this morning, aren’t you?”
Pouring myself a cup, I take a tentative sip and have to slap my hand down on the counter in approval. It is, of course, absolutely perfect, smooth, robust, with just a hint of something that might be cardamom or vanilla.
I don’t interrogate the toast that appears beside the French press, golden brown and still warm. I don’t question the small crystal dish of what appears to be homemade strawberry jam, or the fact that I feel oddly comfortable eating food conjured by a sentient structure. Some mornings are not built for existential debates about the nature of reality and magical architecture. Some mornings are built for caffeine, freshly baked bread thatstill smells like yeast and warmth, and handmade preserves that taste like summer condensed into sweetness.
After finishing my coffee and toast, both disappearing far too quickly, I turn to clean up my mess, only to find the plate, cup, and French press have vanished. The marble countertops gleam once more, as if nothing had ever disturbed their pristine surface.
“I guess that’s my cue to leave and find the shop,” I say aloud to the house, and once again I have to rethink my life and how I’ve apparently befriended a Victorian mansion in less than twenty-four hours. The strangest part is how normal this is starting to feel.
By the time I make it to the foyer with its soaring ceilings and crystal chandelier, my leather messenger bag and phone are waiting for me by the heavy oak door, positioned exactly where I would have placed them myself.
“You’re spoiling me,” I say with another smile as I drape the bag over my shoulder, sliding my phone into the front pocket. “This kind of service, I might never want to leave.”
The thought surprises me with its sincerity.
Today, I walk. My car is with Maceo at his shop, and honestly, there’s no rush to reach my destination. It’s just me and Ruby Springs, getting acquainted in the gentle morning light.
The front door opens with quiet ease, well-oiled hinges making no sound, and morning greets me with crisp October air that doesn’t taste like exhaust fumes and urban despair. Birds chirp like they have nowhere urgent to be, their songs weaving through the rustle of leaves beginning their autumn transformation. The sun hangs golden and generous above rooftops trimmed with flower boxes overflowing with late-season blooms and ivy that seems too green, too lush for the season.
When I lived in New York, the only birds I heard were pigeons fighting over discarded pizza crusts and hot dog wrappers, their cooing a constant urban soundtrack of scavenging and survival.
I step off the wraparound porch and onto the tree-lined sidewalk, and it takes me exactly twelve seconds to realize that the town center is right there, not a distant goal requiring transportation, but an immediate, walkable reality.
I don’t have a ten-minute trek to reach civilization, or a subway ride complete with delays and the intimate knowledge of strangers’ morning breath. There’s no maze of crosswalks where you risk your life just stepping off the curb, no honking drivers treating pedestrians like moving obstacles to their important destinations.
The town is just there on my doorstep.
“This is absurd,” I mutter, pausing to take in the impossibly convenient geography. “What kind of town planning sorcery is this?”
Even as I voice my complaint, I’m thinking about my family’s pride of place in the founding of this community. The manor’s location isn’t accidental, it’s a focal point, probably the original Anchor around which everything else grew. The town likely developed around Thorne Manor, not the other way around, with Ruby Thorne’s influence spreading outward like rings in still water.
I pass tidy Victorian and Colonial homes with neatly trimmed hedges and gardens that look professionally maintained, and people wave at me from their porches and front yards like I’ve lived here my entire life instead of having arrived yesterday in a tow truck.
