Prolouge - it's a goner.

I use to close my eyes and dream of the house. So lovely. I would ache to see it with my eyes. To touch it with my fingertips. To smell the "lived in" smells that so many houses have if they have really seen life.

The paint on the outside would be faded, not new. It was almost as if the paint had never been freshly painted on it. The windows, so many, were always clean. A wrap around porch that invited guest to come and make themselves comfortable. A swing, wicker chairs, plants, they all had their own place on that porch.

In my dream, I would walk around that house. I would check out every nick and cranny that I would find. Sometimes I would run my fingers along the railing, waiting for that spinder that would make the house real.

As many times as the vision came to me, I never walked up those stairs. All the times I walked and studied the outside, I never ventured into the house. There were times I would look into the windows to only see my own reflection. I would turn around to find out where this house was placed, yet there was only thick gray fog. The fog seem to be cutting the house off from the rest of the world. The sun shone on that house, yet all around it were shadows.

I was never scared. I never wondered what await me in that fog. I didn't ask questions. I would just turn around to bathe in the glory of the massive building at my feet.

For all the questions that flew around my mind. I never wondered, not once, who it belonged to. I knew.

It was my house.