Trixie Fraganza stopped at the broken gate and stared up at the estate she had sworn to save. Thirty years of neglect leaned back at her. She wanted this place whole again — twelve chairs, a long table, a kitchen breathing steam. She knew the roof came first. But every step inside was a gamble. A loose beam last week had nearly dropped on her shoulder. She would not guess again. She set up a tall scaffold against the front window. She tied weighted ropes to test floor beams from outside. She tapped walls, listened, marked each groan. On the porch, she opened a thick folio of the original blueprints. She drew red over rotten joists and green over sound ones. Her small ceramic unicorn, a gift from someone on her list, watched from the railing. By dusk, the map was finished. She knew which halls would hold her and which would swallow her whole. She traced a safe path to the dining room with one steady finger. Then rain began to tap the brittle slates above. Water slipped through the ceiling and pooled across her green marks, turning safe rooms into question marks again.