As the gas lamps flicker against Savannah’s twilight, the Andrew Low House stands in quiet grandeur, its iron-laced balconies and shuttered piazza frozen in time. Step inside, and the air thickens with history—whispers of candlelit dinners where generals once raised their glasses, of Juliette Gordon Low sketching dreams of the Girl Scouts in the dim glow of the parlor. But not all who entered have left. A rocking chair creaks in an empty room. Heavy footsteps echo along the stairwell. And in the hush of midnight, a blonde woman lingers in the doorway, her sorrow as palpable as the southern heat.
