Eleanor and Samuel Whitmore, newlywed and full of promise, had completed their homestead upon the wooded outskirts of Dowagiac, Michigan. A modest yet sturdy farmhouse it was, built with careful hands and bound by the quiet certainty that within its walls they would forge a life of industry and contentment.

Long before the first frost settled upon the earth, Samuel had journeyed into town, for there was one possession upon which he placed the highest regard: a Round Oak Stove, fresh from the esteemed foundry of P.D. Beckwith himself. A man of mechanical genius, Beckwith’s name was spoken with admiration, his work regarded as the pinnacle of modern ingenuity. This wood-burning marvel, wrought of the finest cast iron and trimmed in polished nickel, was not merely a stove but a keeper of warmth, a guardian against the cruel bite of winter.

Samuel had spent nearly a month’s wages upon her, but such an expense was no folly—for he had named her Eleanor, and she would stand as the very heart of their home. In her firebox, embers would smolder well into the night, casting flickering shadows upon walls that bore witness to whispered hopes and longings. Through bitter cold and howling wind, Eleanor would not falter, nor would the promise of the home she warmed.