By Molly Rene

There was something contradictory about that old plantation house at the end of the gravel road. Forgotten in the backwoods of Montgomery, Alabama, the house lay sleeping for decades just waiting to be woken up. It stood tall and sturdy but sagged slightly on its Greek revival pillars, like an aging matriarch who spent a lifetime safeguarding her family. The ivory white paint glowed like magnolia blossoms but flaked off near the door frame, revealing the dull grey wood beneath the surface. Rusted nails protruded sporadically from the siding, browning the surrounding white paint that struggled to cover the imperfections. It was as if the paint was trying to hide bruises that had failed to fade away. Green vines crept up the façade; its sinuous branches reaching, crawling, grabbing onto the siding as it grew ever higher. The second floor balcony was covered in an emerald blanket which cast a gentle shadow onto the wraparound porch. Curling tendrils fell delicately from the balcony like a waterfall, obscuring the paneled door. The cascading curtain beckoned to outsiders as if to say, “Come in, child, and I will tell you my secrets”.