He cursed, eyes narrowing as he took in the greenish field ahead—still and eerie. Justin's breath slowed. Something unnatural about how the grass stood fixed, stiff like plastic blades stuck in time. A strange beauty pressed into him, almost..
He can't place.
He took one step closer.
The sight yanked the breath from his chest—a wooden-glass house stood like a perfectly preserved memory in the middle of nowhere.
Its edges too neat.
Too intentional. Framed in coppery vines and silk-thin roots curling around the porch like lace from a wealthy man's handkerchief.
He could see a bronze knocker shaped like a bird's beak, polished so well the clouds above played across its curve. The windows were spotless, trimmed with silver, and behind them—velvet curtains and porcelain vases that whispered old money.
He muttered, "This can't be real..."
