Summer house with a pole

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The summer house stood peacefully at the edge of a sprawling meadow, its wooden beams softened by years of sun and wind. A tall pole stood beside it, casting a long shadow in the golden afternoon light. If the days remained warm and the skies clear, if the wind did not rise too fiercely from the hills, if no sudden storm swept through the valley, the little retreat would remain untouched, a sanctuary of quiet solitude.

The surrounding trees rustled softly, their leaves whispering secrets carried by the breeze. Birds flitted between the branches, their songs mingling with the distant hum of cicadas. Wildflowers bloomed in delicate clusters along the worn wooden steps, their colors vivid against the deep green grass. Inside, the air smelled of old timber and sun-dried linen, a comforting scent that spoke of summers long past.

As the sun dipped lower, the meadow bathed in amber light, and the pole beside the house stood tall, a steadfast sentinel against the passage of time. Here, away from the rush of the world, the summer house waited, a place where time slowed, and the days stretched lazily toward the horizon.