That mansion was my home for decade upon decade, and a small world unto itself. Yet when everyone turns their head to watch you pass, when your name is on a million lips, it is your world and that amount of space is necessary because its all the space you have to exist as the real and vulnerable version of yourself.
Nestled in the woodland, as humble as any rock face in these parts, was a mansion. It's windows were as shy eyes, large to welcome any ray of sun. The rock walls belonged right where it was, as if perchance it had grown up right from that hallowed ground. It was as if it had been called into existence to protect those who came to dwell within, to quell the elements and allow a heat to build from hearths into the inhaled woodland air.
The mansion was all concrete and tall glass windows that gave a view of the mountains, a chance to relax and take in the changing of the seasons from the comfort of an easy chair.
The mansion stood there as if the surrounding nature had embraced it, that the flora flowed within it as much as around it. For the architect had loved the trees so much that there was a mighty oak in the centre, centuries old, and the great house had been built around it.