Winter, walking through Trinity East. Snow dusts the aged brittle bones of a skeletal tree. Its naked arms crowd out the shell remains of a home, foresaken in Brown's Cove. This biscuit box house still holds its posture, plumb, resolute —despite the biting winter winds, the creeping cold, the endless march of years. A ghost, giving up no secrets in the silence, cradles memories whispered by those who once knew its warmth. Who is left to tell its faded stories?