Casa Loma Castle, from a distance, looks like a pile of toy blocks, its gray stone walls covered in vines, some windows dark and empty. Inside, the corridors are long and dark, the rows of armored soldiers still seem to carry the smell of rust. The old horse-drawn carriages in the stables have crooked wheels, their shafts covered in dust. The rooftop terrace is too windy to stand on; the city of Toronto stretches out below, a hazy gray expanse. An old man sits on a bench, flipping through a newspaper, the wind rustling the corners of the pages. When I came out, the sky had overcast, and the castle looked even older under the gray clouds.