My place of peace was an old house. Creaking, moaning, unconcerned with the sins of the humans who lived there. It collected their stories without bias without care keeping them in walls no one could kill. Now it will hold my story in its many halls full of twists and turns, ups and downs, and forgotten stairways. The reflecting pool is smooth as glass, perfect and still. The predawn air is chilled promising an early snow. The roads to this living house will soon be blocked, and it will be many months before more visitors come. I turn my back on the skeletal trees reaching bony hands towards the sky, seeming to beg for mercy. It will be many months before I return to this house that holds my memories and my crimes.