They had been a gift, those days. She knew that now. Now that they were over. Now that she couldn’t go back, couldn’t make it right.
She awoke. It had been the same dream. Again.
It was a world faded to grey, bled of colour. She stared out at the bleached landscape, occasional black accents breaking up the endless sea of snow, and sighed.
Last night I dreamt of forgiveness and new beginnings. Of acceptance and moving forward. Of the sadness of regret and the power of possibility.
She held the letter in her hand. How did he know? She looked around her; at a room that seemed to belong to someone else. Objects collected by another her, in another time, crowded each surface. Meant to bring comfort, but instead bringing only a sense of disconnection.
She felt the familiar thrum of anticipation. Someone was coming.
The thunder crashed again, reverberating around the old house. She flinched, enjoying the fierceness of the storm but shocked by the volume and intensity. Now I’ll find out if the roof leaks, she thought wryly.
As she opened another box, she groaned. How was it possible for one person to accumulate so much stuff?
She left the office, her step lightening as soon as she hit the pavement. It was Friday; at last. Another long week in the office, watching the beautiful sunshine through her window, had taken its toll. Working in central London was fun, frenetic, exciting; but it was hot and confining and claustrophobic.