Winters Tour | Abby

“And here’s the garden,” Abby said, stepping out back.

Just the tour. Just the afternoon.

The house sat at the end of a gravel lane, sun-bleached and lazy, with a porch that sagged just enough to feel welcoming. Abby led the way, barefoot, her hair loose and still damp from a morning swim.

The tomato plants were overgrown, tangled with basil and mint. A green hose lay coiled like a sleeping snake. She picked a small strawberry, blew dust off it, and ate it in one bite.

And for an hour, that’s all it was: rooms with unmade beds, a bathroom with a single wilting eucalyptus branch tied to the shower head, a bedroom where the sheets were tangled from that morning.