The afternoon was spent reading, and dozing. The faint mechanical whir of the fan soothing, though louder than the radio in the next room, now playing a Chopin nocturne.
Thoughts strayed to summers past, the novel a springboard to daydreams of a more innocent time. A playground; now a building. A homemade kite, a schoolboy's first crush, small gravel stones sticking to a smarting knee after a fall.
A gentle breeze whispered names from the past. "Anne Marie, Anne Marie . . . " The trees rustled and threw dappled sunlight across the floor.
Days like these . .