It occurs to her that since he brought her here, there has never been a day without mist shrouding the boundary fence.
How strange; when he talks about the view – the rolling fields, the distant spires.
Every morning he leaves the house, disappears into the mist and takes the motorway south to the sun, re-emerging revitalised at dusk.
Today she ventures out of the garden. A yard from the fence, right around the house, the ground sheers away into an abyss.
She returns indoors, sits at her laptop.
Slowly, she begins to construct a fragile bridge to the outside world.
On our journey south once again, stopping off in France for a couple of days, whilst looking forward to blue skies and milder weather. Here on the boat, the marina is like a ghost town, masts shrouded in mist, dripping spiders’ webs festooned from bow to bow like an obstacle course. Ugh! Thanks to Rochelle for leading the Friday Fictioneers steadily onwards to the end of the year.