I waltz through my village’s rolling, lush hills, taking in the views surrounding me. As I continue on the trail that leads to a small, forlorn cottage with iridescent windows reflecting the slick painting of the sunset, I feel the urge deep in my gut to step inside. I take one step in, and the rusty floorboards squeal under my foot's weight. I push the door further open to a dim setting. The couch is rustic and worn, with tears lining the backside as if something clawed through it. I continue to step further into the bleak cottage, which smells of cedar and dust. I find the kitchen behind the living room and peek into the darkness. A small stained-glass window sits above the sink, and Mother Mary is on her knees, head bowed. As I continue to trail the cottage, my steps bring me to another door. Old and cracked with wear from weather, I step inside the bedroom—my knee bumps into something hard and sharp. A sting of pain shoots up my leg, and I look down to see a bedpost right in the doorway. The room is cramped, with the bed taking up most of the space. In the corner, a small, cozy chair sits beside a standing lamp. I walk around the bedframe, stepping sideways one inch at a time. As I squeeze myself past the bedframe I pull the chord connected to the lamp and, to my surprise, it turns on. Odd. With the lamp on, a small pile of books is illuminated. I take a look at what the cottage owner was into reading. _ The Bell Jar_ by Sylvia Plath. _When the Sun Rises_ by Earnest Hemingway. _The Unbearable Lightness of Being _by Milan Kundera. I feel slightly as if I am intruding on someone’s life by being here. Yet, as I look around, it is obvious that no one has been here in a long time. Dust lines the shelves, leaving footprints on the floors where I have stepped. I walk out of the bedroom, past the quaint kitchen and torn couch, back out of the front door. My footsteps land on the creaky floorboard again as I head towards the damaged front door and back out of the little cottage. As I leave the cottage, the fresh air takes over my senses, relieving me of the dust coating my insides. I look past the rolling, vibrant hills, and my breath catches. The sunset is just peeking over the farthest hill, gazing at me with tranquility and a softness that only lasts a minute before it slowly disappears out of sight. And then I am left in the darkness, so I turn back to my cottage, open the door, walk over the creaky floor board, past the torn couch, through the small damp kitchen, and into my bedroom. I grab _When the Sun Rises_ and lounge back on my firm mattress, picking up from where I left off on page 36.