I still remember the way Margaret’s voice trembled when she first saw it.

We had been driving all day, my sweet wife of forty years, to celebrate our anniversary in Savannah. The trip was supposed to be a gentle reward for a lifetime of hard work. The air was thick with magnolia scent, and our hearts were light.

We’d booked a charming little cottage on East Jones Street through a woman named Clara Jenkins. Her reviews were glowing, the photographs full of antique furniture and lace curtains. Margaret had practically squealed with delight.

It was close to midnight when we finally turned onto the street. The GPS announced, ‘You have arrived at your destination,’ and I squinted through the windshield. The house numbers were hard to read in the dim glow of the old-fashioned streetlamps.

‘There, Robert, 214,’ Margaret said, pointing to a porch light. ‘That must be it.’

I was so