Edward walked briskly along the avenue leading to the old farmhouse. He took a deep breath about every fifth step and let it out in jagged bursts.

He let his hand trail through tall weeds and grasses gracing a path so worn with time, even nature's rampage couldn't overtake it. The feeling was calming, invoking old memories. Loss, like the weeds over the path, couldn't consume them.

Edward took a hesitant step onto the aging porch. Gone were the vibrant doormats Grandma had insisted on; gone was her lovely presence in the doorway.

He paused a moment at the stoop, almost willing her to be there to swing open the door and welcome him in. He pictured the scene played out in his mind from years of memories. They faded with the mists around him.

He reached out and touched the rough screen door, pulled it firmly, then creaked open the faded red one beyond.

"It's red to remind everyone of Christmas all year," he remembered her saying. She was Santa's biggest supporter.

Taking another jagged breath, Edward stepped inside. He was overwhelmed by the scent of her, the matriarch of his heart. Ignored was the mustiness of decay, the aroma of mold and animal waste.

He walked through the house, room by room, gathering final memories.

On a dusty stand beside a faded couch, he glimpsed a simple globe enshrining a Christmas scene. He had found the treasure he would keep. Tomorrow he could sell the farm in peace.