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It has been a low interest day with one notable exception.

Dobby and Judith have both decided, out of the blue, that the staircase landing, looking down, is THE place to be.

Perhaps it has something to do with airflow or sunspots or watching us as we pass by below.

Perhaps, I am sensing, it has something to do with the Victorian Lady portrait I hung on a whim the other day, at the foot of the stairs.

Perhaps, as my husband is sensing, it is just my imagination running wild.

Perhaps I will have to research the portrait like they do in the movies. Scour through reams of microfiche and newspapers hoping to catch a glimpse of her on the society page from decades ago. Learn her secrets, discover a message she wants relayed, a lie she wants corrected, a truth she needs told.

Perhaps tomorrow the sun will filter differently through the window on the stairs, cast a longer, less inviting shadow, and they will find somewhere else to lay.

Perhaps we will have to wait and see.

Perhaps the joy is in never really knowing the answer; leaving the story open, the possibilities endless.

Perhaps that is why the mysteries that endure the longest are the ones that remain unsolved.