The Girl Across the Sea
Part 1: A Room With a View
There’s a window in an attic room, just beneath eaves that arc and fold like angel wings on either side.
Surprisingly, to me, it looks out across a meadow, lingering with a melancholic air, before rising in great state towards the forest crouching beyond — where the sun will surely set.
I feel a strong assurance that if I wait long enough, the light will fade and the fireflies will sparkle in the grasses, beginning their spritely promenade towards the heavens.
There is a desk before me. An old one; perhaps antique; and on it nothing more than five items: pages of cotton canvas, stitched convincingly into folios and passing, to my mind, as a book; an ink well; a small hand blown vase of brownish glass with dried nosegay lingering; two feathers, both white and likely from a seagull; and finally, a pocket watch on a perfectly folded pocket square of blue. Its steady rhythm reminding me of a heartbeat — but I couldn’t say whose.
Instinctively, I do not turn around. I feel the need to— only— address that which lies before me. And, if you are so inclined, I shall share my story.
Thank you so much for reading. Daily life keeps me from so much writing, but I believe I have been sitting at this desk for quite some time in my subconscious, and if you are patient with me, I will tell you more.