She sat in the bath. The window was closed, and inside the house it was silent. The only sound was the faint rustle-pop of the bubbles and the swish of the water as she straightened her legs.
The girl stood outside the telephone box.
It was raining; one of those English nights where the light turns everything blue.
The girl was small. She could just about reach the handle of the red door behind her, but it was too heavy for her to pull open. She’d tried. It had earned her a stern look from inside the box.
It’s Monday morning. I wake up to the sound of seagulls screeching outside the window, sun straining through the blind.
I work for a bit, perched on the edge of the single bed in the hotel room with a bright pink laptop on my knee and my feet resting on the chair opposite, tapping out replies to emails and deciding on my Out Of Office message.
By 10am I’m on a bus through the countryside, familiar places passing by the window, invoking memories that have lain dormant since I last returned almost three years ago.