I'd bought the old house in an auction for a price too good to refuse, but then I hesitated to move in. The place was nice. My wife loved it. But something about it never felt right. No matter the time of day, it had shadows that shrouded even the brightest hours of those summer days we first spent there. Whatever light filtered through the mossy oak trees seemed to be tinged with an aura of sadness, as though the light was from the last rays of a star that had already expired. There was a charming wrought iron fence with vines and rosebushes. Fountains of smirking cherubs pissed into the quiet air that throbbed with a strange, soulful ache. To sit on a bench in the garden was to bathe in melancholy.
I fell asleep in the garden one evening in that first autumn, lulled to the sound of crisp leaves clattering, drifting down from the branches of the giant oaks. The waning rays of the fall sun splashed warmth across my face, and I fell into a dream.