The Violet Gate
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The Violet Gate
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Narrated by:
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Virtual Voice
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By:
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Darlene Zagata
This title uses virtual voice narration
About this listen
Every house remembers its own story. But some... refuse to let go of it.
They found it by accident — a winding road that dropped off the edge of the county map, a crumbling stone fence half-swallowed by wild foxglove, a crooked iron gate covered in vines the color of bruises.
The house stood at the top of the hill, watching them.
Three stories. Weathered shutters. A roofline that leaned to the left, like it had been listening to the wind for too long. And at the center of the front garden — overgrown and half-buried — a gate. Not the one they drove through, but a smaller one. Painted once, long ago, in a violet shade now faded to ash.
John had stopped walking when he saw it. He didn’t know why.
Something about it felt… familiar.
Emma had taken his hand then, squeezed it once, and said the same thing they both were thinking:
“This place has been waiting for us.”
They bought the house that autumn.
No bidding war. No inspection issues. Just a simple transfer — as if the place had been waiting not for buyers, but for them.
Emma called it a fresh start.
John called it fate.
But the house?
The house only listened.
And remembered.