It was several months of this repeated vision before the dust steadily began to part. Before long I could make out rolling yellowed fields of wheat half-living, or half-dead. The hanging figure, prior to its reveal, manifested a great house in its vanguard. The house stood out against otherwise naked plains. White-washed wooden siding climbed its steep gables, and broken balustrades marked the limits of its wrapped porch. I couldn’t decide if its weathering was a mark of durability or of weakness. The house resembled nothing from my present life, but I felt its significance and familiarity. The house belonged to me, and I felt it was I who brought it forth and not the figure whose path it intersected.