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"Now you see," he whispered to Clara, who stood beside him. "Eccentricity is not loneliness. It is a lighthouse. It only looks strange until you need its light."
He invited her in. She expected dust and madness. Instead, she found a home organized not by function, but by feeling . The kitchen was arranged by color. The library by the smell of the paper. In the garden, he had planted clocks—hourglasses, sundials, a broken cuckoo—among the camellias.
Over the next weeks, Clara returned. She stopped taking notes. She began to see .