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. The other side of the fence, right around the house, the ground sheers away into an abyss.
She returns indoors, sits at her typewriter.
Slowly, she begins to construct a fragile bridge to the outside world.
Since arriving home from Spain a week ago, life has been a whirl of catching up, re-stocking (or attempting to) and planning how to cope with the situation. I’m so grateful to be back home, and I’m fortunate that social isolation is no big deal for me. I’ll try to be more inventive next week, but this week it’s a retread, appropriate for our time, from five years back. Thanks to Rochelle for bringing Friday Fictioneers together from all over the world. Stay safe, stay home, keep well – wherever you may be.