On the outskirts of a small town, nestled between rolling green hills and dense, whispering forests, there was an old, abandoned farmhouse that had long captured the imaginations of local children and curious explorers alike. Its weathered wooden walls, once vibrant with paint, now bore the scars of time, with peeling shingles and broken windowpanes that reflected the golden sunlight in fractured shards. Despite its abandoned state, the house seemed to hold a quiet, mysterious charm, as if it was patiently waiting for someone to uncover its secrets. The front yard was overgrown with tall grasses and wildflowers that swayed gently in the breeze. A narrow, winding dirt path led up to the creaking front porch, which sagged slightly under the weight of years gone by. Wooden steps, splintered and uneven, beckoned visitors to step inside, but most hesitated, wary of what might lie beyond the threshold. The porch swing, hanging from rusty chains, swayed softly in the wind, producing a faint squeaking sound that echoed through the quiet air. As one stepped through the battered doorway, the air was thick with a mixture of dust, old wood, and a hint of dried lavender that seemed to cling stubbornly to the walls. Inside, the house was cloaked in shadows, with sunlight filtering through the cracks and broken windows, casting shifting patterns on the creaking wooden floors. The rooms were filled with remnants of a bygone era—faded wallpaper peeling at the edges, antique furniture covered in white sheets that resembled ghostly figures, and shelves sagging under the weight of dusty books and forgotten trinkets. In the living room, a grand fireplace still stood proudly at the far end, its brickwork cracked but intact. A battered mantel held a tarnished brass clock and a few lonely photographs in tarnished frames, their faces blurred by time. An old armchair, upholstered in faded floral fabric, sat near the fireplace, as if waiting for someone to sit and share stories of days long past. The air here felt thick with memories, quiet yet heavy with the echoes of laughter and conversation that once filled the space. Moving into the kitchen, the scent of stale bread and dried herbs lingered faintly. Rusted pots and pans hung from a crooked rack above a battered wooden table, which bore scratches and stains from years of use. A small, chipped sink sat beneath a window that looked out onto the overgrown garden, where wild roses and blackberries grew unchecked. The garden itself was a wild tangle of vines, trees, and bushes, hiding secrets among the tangled branches—perhaps a forgotten swing hanging from a sturdy old oak tree or a rusting wheelbarrow half-buried in the dirt. Despite its decay, the house radiated a strange warmth, like a quiet guardian of stories waiting to be retold. It was a place of memories, mystery, and imagination—a reminder of days when life was simpler, and every crack and creak told a story of its own. For those who dared to explore its depths, the old farmhouse offered an adventure into the past, a journey through time wrapped in shadows and sunlight, waiting patiently for discovery.

Answer the following questions based on the passage above.