Set close to the lane I travel on it was, up until about a year ago, fairly non-descript.
In fact, the much larger homes around it dwarfed the modest looking house. As it were, a poor step-child to the other mansions situated around the golf course and country club.
But one day I noticed some construction taking place near the front door. Day by day, week by week, a tall cylinder took shape.
And my puzzlement grew.
A cone was built on top, like a hat.
And my curiosity grew.
Finally, windows were cut in the cone, seemingly haphazardly. And a curved wooden door with black iron hinges.
And I shook my head in bewilderment.
Then came the whitewash.
And I saw it was a tower.
An artist arrived while I was toiling away at work one day.
And I was amazed.
The evening was still young when I saw the tower completed.
And I sighed in delight and wonderment.
A Tower of Dreams.
Raised on fairy tails, both dark and light, I immediately wondered if the talented father built this for his lovely young daughter, ill and in bed.
But being the mindful writer of this passer-by tale, I decided that it was obviously built by a talented father for his very young, and very fanciful daughter, whom he loved very much.
And I drove the rest of the way home with a sweet smile on my lips.
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