Some houses breathe. Not with lungs, but with floorboards that remember bare feet at sunrise, and windows that have held a thousand golden afternoons like held breath. This one does. The flower boxes bloom like they’ve always known joy. Inside, the light moves slow and warm across the open living space, pooling in corners where stories like to hide. The kitchen hums with old songs and quiet breakfasts. Three bedrooms sleep along the hallway like children tucked in for the night. A fourth room, off to the side, waits—a blank page for whatever you dream: painting, music, escape. Step out back and the world opens up. Fenced yard, tall sky, a deck that catches the last of the day like a net. There's a shed, too, standing still, keeping watch. This is more than walls and roof. It’s the kind of place where summers last longer and laughter knows its way home.