I read once that a good way to practice writing was to take one still frame of a movie, and turn it into an environment of your own. "The Chateau" was this part of this exercise, to a still frame from Gosford Park. Though I certainly want to revisit these at some point.
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He walks barefoot on imperfect, uneven hardwood floors, carrying a mug of coffee, walking from the kitchen to the piano. Completely engrossed in the music playing in his head. He sits down and tousles the hair of the quietly snoring pup, who slowly gets pushed aside as the bench he's sleeping against is pulled back. He sits, and disappears into the keys.
Tink, tink tink on the panes, a distracted rain! He walks excitedly to the tall windows, pulls on the black wooden handle and nudges one open to hear the rain pouring outside. A beautiful overgrown green landscape, with rolling hills of the English countryside. The rain is coming down so hard in the distance that it looks like a solid gray sheet. The rain is damaging the already worn iron chairs on the nearby patio, which are certain to never be replaced. Quite purposefully.
The home is drafty, underlit, and under decorated, but not uncared for in the least. There is an admiration and attention in the open and sparsely furnished spaces, left alone and not burdened by unnecessary trinkets. Everything has a purpose, even the blankness. The home never gets in its own way of a pleasant situation.
He is happy here. Calm, and perfect, and continuously inspired. Without him, the house is large, spacious, old and rundown. Stark. But as he walks through the rooms, the house warms with his steps, and personality spreads from the walls. It is simple, beautiful, peaceful.
He makes the house a wonderland.
And in the library down the hall, she sits reading, listening to the patter of rain and the interrupted sessions of piano music.
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