12x12x1.5
Acrylic on canvas
 Everyone said the cottage appeared only when someone was ready.
Marcy lived beneath the misty moon and spiral smoke, in a blue house where trees leaned close and the light stayed soft. She hung small flags on the porch, not for celebration, but for remembering joy.
Each morning she walked the stone path barefoot, brewed tea, and listened. Some days she painted. Some days she rested. Both felt important.
A single lamp glowed by the door each night, not to keep anything out, but to let the world know this was a safe place to pause.
If you passed by, you might think she was alone.
She wasn’t.
She lived with the trees, the quiet, and a house that knew her name.