The boat's motor fades to a gentle humming idle as it approaches the abandoned farmhouse. Kviar looms rather eerily atop an embankment of overhanging cornices. Yet the placement of the house at the end of the valley allows northerly winds to carve a wake between snowy drifts down to the shoreline, beckoning forth voyagers from the sea. Her paint has long since peeled away to the wind. Shutters creak. Whistles through windows and frosted patterns frozen on cold nights create a muted beauty nonetheless.