Once upon a time, in the storybook kingdom of Decatur, nestled between ancient oak trees and singing birds, there stood a darling red-brick cottage on a peaceful street. Its arched window watched the world, and its cheerful yellow door smiled at everyone who passed by. Some said the cottage was magic, others said gold was buried in the basement walls. Inside, its hardwood floors creaked with pride, whispering stories beneath bare feet. The kitchen and bath had been lovingly renewed, thoughtful touches tucked into every corner like secret spells. The checkerboard kitchen floor was known to spark spontaneous pancake dances. While the front office with its colorful mural could heal the grumpiest of moods. In April the big sunroom dappled in golden light smelled like wisteria that draped itself over the patio trellis. Beyond the glass, the backyard stretched out, flat and grassy, with a proud Japanese maple and mischievous gnomes hiding between the roots and gathering acorns when frost covered the ground. It was a kingdom made for barefoot adventures and evening fire pit gatherings.
The roof was brand-new, strong as a knight’s shield, and the HVAC came with a dehumidifier to keep the cottage just right. Best of all, this enchanted little world sat just down the lane from Westchester Elementary, the YMCA, and only half a mile from the feasts and festivities of Decatur Square: Farm Burger, Chai Pani, Dancing Goats, and the taco haven known as Taqueria del Sol. Now, the family who lived there, a kind bunch with laughter in their voices, had cherished every corner. But one morning, as the Robins sang a slightly different tune, they felt it in their bones: it was time to turn the page. With brave hearts and misty eyes, they called their wise Real Estate Agent and whispered the words, “It is time.” They polished the windows until they sparkled. They swept out the corners and pressure-washed the driveway until it gleamed like a stone path to a castle. Every inch was loved. Every inch was ready. Not far away, in a cozy apartment, a lovely couple had just finished their toast with jelly and decided to venture off for a weekend filled with house hunting, They turned down a tree-lined street, one they’d never explored before. Merrill, it was called. As they passed the cottage with the yellow door, something stirred. A hush fell. They stopped. The window blinked. And the house smiled. And just like that, a new story was ready to begin.
