Who would descend such a staircase? A Quincenara introduced to high society? A bride approaching her groom? Or an matronly host of an elite inn catering only to the jet-setting crowd?
Morning light bathes the steps through east-facing windows, and a breeze rustles the translucent curtains. So just what occasion would occur on such a spring or autumn day? A brunch, or luncheon party, perhaps. Or nothing at all; just another ordinary day, like so many others.
Only the staircase could say. And it remains silent.
another old house remains
on the market