He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

Stepping into the foyer was like stepping into another era; houses just weren’t made like this anymore. A wide hallway divided the home in half, and ran from the front stained-glass doors all the way to a set of identical ones in the back. There was marble beneath his feet, but the floor down the corridor was a gleaming hand-hewn wood, darkened with age. The walls were papered in dark blue damask, with enough white trim molding, all elaborately carved, to keep the color from feeling heavy. The few pieces of furniture in the foyer were all antiques, from the massive hall-tree beside the door to the small settee and side chair tucked into a corner. But the real beauty of the room was the stairway, a curved creation that swept from the right of the foyer, up and over the hallway, to float into the second floor of the grand old home with style and grace.

Lange ran an appreciative hand over the bannister, admiring the fine workmanship of a century past.  The wood was warm beneath his touch, worn smooth from years of handling and polishing and perhaps, he imagined, a dozen children sliding down its curved path. If he ever took the plunge into home ownership, this was exactly the kind of house he would want.