Welcome to August. Please, open the door…
There is a long, winding path. Trees stand tall either side.
At the end of the path is a house of crumbling brick and turrets pointing into the sky. At the top of the steps, a door stands open, a door that is one of many. Step inside, and it already smells of secrets and starlight, of wind and mysteries.
Thick layers of dust cover furniture that once gleamed with polish. Cobwebs string the corners light Christmas lights.
Climb the stairs. Note the doors that line the corridor on the first floor, all locked tight. Climb higher.
And higher still.
Floorboards creak underfoot. The door to one of the turrets is open, and the staircase inside is winding, winding.
There is another door at the top, this one locked, too. The key is heavy in your pocket, but you don’t know what lies behind the thick wood, the brass handle.
It could be anything.