Just off the mudroom, behind a door most guests assume is a broom cupboard, lies a cedar-lined haven of masculine “essentials”:
boots broken in by weather and questionable judgment,
a belt allegedly older than the estate itself,
walking canes from adventures no one will explain,
and flasks abandoned with great intention.

Officially, this is the gentlemen’s domain.
Unofficially, the women of the estate raid it constantly—treating it like a lending library with no return policy. They borrow the warmest boots, the best scarves, and absolutely deny knowing where that missing flask went.