Yarn by E.M. Potts
It was mid-afternoon, towards the close of the year. Light clung to the kitchenette’s white shine long after it had fled from the dusty nooks of Vi’s living space – from the crevices between the faded cushions of her sofa-bed; the gaps above books jammed tight in shelves. Vi filled a bottle from the tap and cast it into the holdall hanging from her shoulder. She had only packed a few things – would be away just one night. She paused the next day’s grocery delivery, then called the lift, fingers dancing over the tablet. Vi was old-fashioned that way – she had always avoided using voice control, preferring to keep her mumblings to herself.
As Vi stepped into the lift’s mirrored glass, the illuminated reflection of a scruffy fifty-something year-old stared back. This usually just irritated her, but today it revealed a deep red smear across her forehead, stark against winter-pale skin – evidence of an argument with a kitchen knife earlier on. She sighed, dug in her bag for a tissue.
The upward pressure as the lift swept downward was like a purge; as if Vi had slipped out, leaving a version of herself to stand, brooding, looking out at the city scape until the vestiges of sunlight showed as brief flashes on skyscrapers, a last desperate call for rescue as dusk’s blanket smothered the city.
Having wiped away the blood, Vi felt a little less dishevelled when the lift doors slid open, though she was aware of the dark circles emphasising the sag under her eyes evidencing decades of sixty-hour work weeks.
She nearly slipped stepping out into the seasonal sludge, and considered what the Underground might be like: rammed with soggy commuters and holiday folk no doubt. She pulled out her console and called for a car, swiping swiftly past the balance-check screen set to appear in moments like this. She thought she probably had enough.
The car’s interior smelt of disinfectant with a faint echo of vomit, but seemed clean. Vi scooted around on the plastic seat as the car swung round corners, always uncomfortably close to the other vehicles on the road – a robot murmuration, mapped to the centimetre.
Tiring quickly of the chaotic flick-book view of bodies, buildings and vehicles, Vi reached for the control panel and rendered the windows a calm grey. She pulled out an envelope addressed to ‘Mite Gilligan’ (Mite, her childhood nickname), and emptied its contents – a card, and a printed hotel reservation – into her lap.
The small rectangle of stiff card – expensive – was embossed on one side with gold lettering, reading ‘Phoebe Rose & Partners, Solicitors,” along with an address. On the other, today’s date and an appointment time – now around two hours away – was handwritten in neat script, along with the note ‘regarding the last wishes of Ant Gilligan.’
On one level, Vi was annoyed at this final grab for attention from Ant – Antonia – her cousin, from whom she had once been inseparable. But she had to admit she was curious. And, if she was being honest, this call to leave the city, to dip a toe into her past, was scratching an itch she had felt for some time.
Vi was still musing when the car beeped its arrival warning. She shoved the envelope and its contents back into her bag just in time for the door to swing open, a loud buzz rudely ushering her out into Paddington’s rush. The station had changed little since she was a child, other than the flurries of drones that had joined the ever-present flocks of feral pigeons; and the trains of course – the sleek maglevs that had, apparently, shrunk the country (though only really for city-dwellers) towering over the platforms. The grand arched rooves of steel and glass still seemed to draw the chatter up and thrust it back down into the crowd, amplifying the chaos. Vi managed to get through security with a minimal bribe, and found her train without much trouble. Soon she felt the firm but gentle push of acceleration as the maglev departed.
It had been such a long while since Vi had made this journey – twenty years, perhaps more? She hadn’t been able to attend Antonia’s funeral – had been in the midst of a particularly complicated project at work, and told herself that taking time out would have put her job at risk – though she hadn’t asked for the leave. It wasn’t that she hadn’t loved Ant, even after breaking off contact all those years ago. It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted to say goodbye either. It just hadn’t been the right moment.
The maglev slowed towards each stop, bringing its surroundings into view. Other than that, it was a blur, as if being sucked back into an indistinct past. First, Reading’s tunnel, very much a continuation of London; then – too soon – Swindon, its skyscrapers soaring above a jumble of factories and twentieth century housing.
Vi changed here to a dilapidated train that could well have been the same stock she had travelled on as a child at the beginning and end of each school holiday. The familiarity was jarring – even the uncomfortable seats holding echoes of the excitement and relief she used to feel heading to Stroud. But Vi was, she realised, holding much at arm’s length, knowing that now there was no one she knew left. She concentrated on the passing scenery, trying hard to go no deeper than observation: What had changed? What was still the same? The flatter fields around Kemble were paved with solar panels, glinting in the fast-fading light. Chalford was unchanged, yellowing houses perched on hillsides, still riding the rippled land. Floodlit industrial buildings snaked along the valley floor, stilted to avoid the floods. When the train drew into Stroud’s Victorian station, the same burnt orange and brown-painted woodwork greeted Vi. It had seemed like a relic even when she was a child.
The solicitor’s office was just past the station forecourt – a single door bearing an engraved metal plate tucked between a pub-hotel and the faded tiled frontage of what looked from the scrawled menu board to be a café, misted windows obscuring its interior. Vi resisted an impulse to go inside, order something – anything really – and watch her appointment recede like the departing train. Instead, she pressed the doorbell, and waited.
Just as she was wondering again about the café, the sound of static emanated from the intercom. Then a flat, gravelled voice:
“Good afternoon. Please state with whom you have an appointment.” More static.
Vi bent down to the speaker, which was set at an awkward height: “Appointment with Phoebe Rose at four-thirty.”
“Thank you. Name, please?”
Vi bent down again, her back complaining: “Violet Gilligan.”
There followed a pause, then:
“That name is not fully recognised. Please revise.” Vi was sure she could hear irritation, though she was equally sure the voice was computer generated. She remembered how the envelope had been addressed, and tried again:
“Mite Gilligan?” The reply this time was almost instantaneous:
“Thank you. M. Gilligan. Please take the stairs to the third floor.”
The intercom buzzed, the door opening with a click. The stairs were narrow and steep and Vi was out of breath by the time she reached a frosted glass door at the top of the building, ‘P. Rose, Solicitor’ etched into it. Vi rapped briefly and pushed against the door which swung open without resistance.
The room was tiny, barely containing a vintage wooden desk with two chairs and a tall metal cabinet to one side. Behind the desk, where Vi would have expected the solicitor to be seated, there stood instead a bot of the type normally seen in shops and warehouses – a cuboid ‘torso’ out of which extended four jointed arms fitted with various grabbing tools. Embedded in the upper section was a screen that glowed deep blue.
“Do take a seat.”
Vi took a step back, confused. It was the same gravelly voice but she had never heard audio from this type of bot. Perhaps it was a custom build – integrated video-call setup?
“Apologies. There was no intention to startle you. Do take a seat.”
Vi hovered in the doorway still. “Is this Phoebe working remotely? Could you turn your camera on please.”
“I am Phoebe.” The tone was icy, and the gesture with the arms – pointing to the torso – left Vi in no doubt that she was talking with, not through, the bot. Even if this was highly complex software (Vi had never bought into the idea of AI consciousness) she didn’t want to offend.
“Apologies. Erm, Phoebe. Good to meet you. I’m Violet – Mite Gilligan.” Vi parked in one of the chairs, and the bot’s poised arms dropped to its sides. “I understand you have some information concerning my cousin, Antonia.”
“Yes, that’s correct. One moment.”
Vi didn’t know whether to be affronted or impressed by the bot – Phoebe. The top portion swivelled round so that the screen was facing the filing cabinet. It opened the drawer using the tool attached to one arm and, with another, rifled through rows of hanging files – like something from a twentieth century film – Poirot or the like. Vi smiled at the juxtaposition.
Phoebe swung back to face Vi, and placed on the leather-topped desk another envelope addressed ‘Mite Gilligan.’
“Please, take a look.”
In the envelope was a letter and another small rectangular card. Vi read the letter first:
Hello Mite,
Long time no see. And by the time you read this – if you read this – that’ll be it.
It’s ok though.
If you’re game, I want to show you a couple of things. And I have a question for you – a puzzle of sorts:
Tell me Mite, what are you missing?
Ant xxx
Vi sighed. Ant had loved a mystery, and she had too, as a child. The card was embossed with gold lettering again, although this one read more like an invitation than a business card:
Solstice
The Heavens waterfall
December 21, 15:00
The date was tomorrow – Saturday – which explained the hotel reservation. Three o’clock was cutting it fine for Vi’s train back – she had agreed to meet Paul, her manager, for a ‘social’ catch-up, largely to keep him onside. But she’d have most of the day free. Perhaps she could wander round the market, even take a walk up to Rodborough Common, swing by the house she had stayed in for most of her childhood school holidays – where Aunty Sheel and Uncle Connor, and Ant of course – had lived. Her second home, they had called it, though never in front of Vi’s own parents. She looked up from the card – Phoebe was emitting a low humming sound.
“Is there anything else,” Vi asked.
“Nothing more for now.”
“What does that mean?” Vi was beginning to get irked at the bot’s obtuseness.
“I’m not able to expand at this stage. The hotel is just next door and I think you’ll find it comfortable. I’ve taken the liberty of booking you in for dinner at the bar.”
“I … thank you.” Vi found herself exhausted, lacking the energy to probe further. She stood and, as she did so, the bot rocked forward and back on its mounting – a nod of sorts, she guessed.
“Best of luck, M. Gilligan.”
The staff at the hotel-bar next door – a building that, it struck Vi, must have been of the same era as Phoebe’s filing cabinets - were friendly and accommodating, and agreed to bring dinner up to her room: cosy, if a little threadbare, with a window looking across the station to the lights of Rodborough Hill.
Despite her tiredness and the comfy bed, Vi didn’t sleep well at all. And, despite her intentions, when the sun crept over the hill the next morning, Vi couldn’t envisage leaving her bed, let alone the room. She arranged a late checkout and room service, telling herself she was being indulgent. But there was a heaviness she couldn’t seem to shift. Ant’s question kept coming to mind:
“What am I missing?”
For the first time in a very long time, Vi considered her decision to settle for the life she had. It was far from the worst set-up and, in particular, far better than her parents’, who had become trapped in corporate indenture. Vi had sworn she would find job security without servitude, and she had, after a fashion – working for a big consultancy firm, making sure she was an asset – always a step ahead of her colleagues in hours and effort.
Vi could hear the bustle of market customers coming and going; the whine of drones. It was grey outside and, even though she’d pulled back the curtains, never felt like daylight in the room. She could just make out the crenelated towers of Rodborough Fort emerging from the woods skirting the Common; visualised her Aunt and Uncle’s house nestling not far below. She and Ant had called it the gatehouse – it was the base from which all their fantastic adventures would begin – always building up and breaking down – through the woods, the streams, and across the commons – dens, dams, stories; they treated them all alike – leaving what they didn’t need behind them; taking what they did along for the next adventure.
When they were of an age not to be embarrassed by such things, Aunty Sheel had knitted them both wool jumpers, Violet’s a vibrant purple, and Antonia’s a deep green. “What a magnificent sight you two are,” Sheel would say, “beetling everywhere together – mighty Violet and audacious Antonia.” From there, somehow, Mite and Ant had emerged – names that had stuck through to their teenage years, when they continued adventuring together, albeit in different ways.
Vi remembered other things too, things that couldn’t have been real – like the tiny glowing organisms found in hollows – spores, Ant called them – that they would spend hours hunting for. When they discovered some, they would whirl them up into the air so that they danced like luminescent dust motes, before drifting gently back to the ground or away on the breeze. She and Ant would sometimes dare each other to swallow a spore – then watch as the glow spread from their bellies to the tips of their fingers and toes, before slowly fading.
It was memories like these that had led the company therapist to suggest cutting off contact with Antonia, in those dark days after Vi’s parents had been found dead, curled up together as if sheltering from a storm. Ant had been calling every day; the reminiscing had felt like pinpricks of light in the gloom.
The therapist thought otherwise: “You’re obsessing with what is – in essence – a childhood fantasy. It’s stopping you from engaging with the real world.” As he gestured to the offices around them, Vi’s heart had sunk, but it was probably fair, and in any event, she was almost at the end of her compassionate leave allowance. The therapist had implied – intentionally or not, Vi was never sure – that Vi’s ties to Stroud meant she was less supportive to her parents than she could have been. This proved the final push.
She had thrown herself back into work and stopped replying to Antonia’s calls, and her letters, which had kept coming intermittently until Ant’s death a couple of years back. Vi had never allowed herself the space to contemplate getting back in touch; the idea was too entangled with her parents and the feelings of blame that still haunted her.
Vi managed finally to drag herself up and out. She walked along the London Road and up Bowbridge Lane, taking the footpath between houses that cut a gentle diagonal down across a tufted field, edged at the bottom by woodland and the valley floor. The path was still well kept – it had been dug back recently. For a moment, she was with her former – smaller – self, running to catch up with Ant who, as ever, had forged ahead. It was as if a dam had been removed, and the pain, when it hit, was visceral.
“Come on Vi.” She forced herself on, wiping tears on the back of her sleeve; forced a smile at the memory which, after all, was a good one.
She pushed on - strode on after Ant, up into the woods, past the iron kissing gate which had rusted back even more, though the spindly structure was still functional. Vi kicked through leaf mould, following the path up to the little waterfall. But there was no tumble of water anymore; a mere trickle finding its way down tentatively to the bare stream bed below.
Vi sat on a water-worn rock, the birds more audible now the stream had all but stopped flowing. She could hear a robin’s elaborate song, and the occasional caw of the jackdaws that stalked the edge of the field below.
“Used to run every spring. Hit and miss now.”
Vi looked up to see a stocky figure silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, a hand raised in greeting:
“Hello. Mite?”
Vi bristled. “It’s Violet, not Mite. But you clearly know who I am, so you must know – have known Ant – Antonia?” She could hear herself using her office voice: formal and defensive.
Hands on hips, the person smirked. Vi could make out a beard and long black hair, brown skin and a ruddy nose: a kind face.
“We all knew her as Ant. I’m Sunil – Sunny to my friends – to you.” Sunny stepped gingerly over the smoothed rocks, coming to sit just down from Vi. “Still well used though.”
“What is?”
“The Heavens – the valley. The stream too, when it runs. We’ve done lots of work on the streams and rivers around here. Digging out floodplains, planting trees – trying to keep the water where it is for as long as we can. Can’t really do much about the heat though. We’re mapping the changes – trying various things to adapt, stop the …” Sunny trailed off. “You’re Ant’s cousin, right. I figured you’d be interested.”
Vi flushed hot. She’d been gazing down the gentle bowl of the valley, not thinking of anything in particular, Sunny’s talk a string of words playing in the background.
“I do apologise.” Urgh. That office tone again.
Sunny struck a conciliatory note: “Look, sorry. I think we … I … got off on the wrong foot.”
Vi could see Ant jumping from one foot to other in the stream, running up the banks and back down again, sketching out swirls of enthusiasm. Come on Mite, let’s get moving!
“It’s ok. I’m sorry. I’m just …” she searched for the words to explain how she was feeling, and failed: “… a bit tired. Perhaps we could walk a little? You could tell me about how you knew Ant.”
It seemed to Vi as they walked that Sunny wasn’t telling her much that she didn’t already know. She had Ant’s letters to thank for that – she thought she recognised Sunny from the letters too. Now that she was back here, she wondered whether she could ever have been part of this community, with Ant. Too late now.
There were two fires at the woods’ edge. One, she had seen on the way up – a stone-edged campfire in the midst of a gathering of kids and adults; a toddler running round the group with a stick, squealing with laughter. The other was larger, flames sheeting skyward. The figures surrounding it looked to be teens, constantly in motion, shifting to avoid the smoke that seemed to pursue them around the blaze.
Vi remembered fires lit with Ant – with flint and steel, and cotton wool – in their secret clearing up above the waterfall, sheltered from the wind. There they would stare into flames, share stories, flights of fancy. Occasionally, they would hunt for the glowing spores, to throw a handful onto the fire. Hovering above the flames, the spores would explode with a flash into hundreds more bright motes, and drift away with the smoke. It had all seemed so real back then. Just child’s play.
“You alright, Violet?”
Vi had drifted off again. She wasn’t sure what Sunny had been saying – had no sense at all of his words this time, rather just the song-like note of his talk.
“Sorry, just a bit lost in the memories. I was thinking about the games Ant and me used to play here.”
Sunny smiled broadly. “Of course – the adventures of audacious Ant and mighty Violet. Ant told me all about it. Wish I’d had that freedom as a kid.”
Vi was taken aback. Those were their stories – hers and Ant’s. Not the greatest, but words woven between them in secret. Or so she had thought. She felt childish, jealous almost, unsure how to respond. She glanced down at her console and saw that there were only fifteen minutes until her train was due to leave.
“You idiot!”
Sunny stepped back, obviously confused, likely trying to work out what he’d said wrong.
“Sorry, not you Sunny. I’m late for … I have to get my train.” Vi hurried away, skating a little on the mud and grass. Soon, Sunny was jogging alongside her – “is there anything I can do to help? I have a bike, you could maybe …”
Vi found she very much didn’t want Sunny’s help. In fact, she wanted to be as far away from here – and from him – as soon as was possible.
“It’s fine, don’t worry. I’ll be faster on my own.”
Sunny stopped short as Vi kept going. She heard him shout after her, “take care, Violet,” and, shortly afterward, “oh, and happy Solstice.” Vi raised a hand in response, but didn’t look back.
Vi made the train – just. It took her half the journey to regain her composure. What had she been thinking? Striding across the Paddington concourse, she was embarrassed to notice mud smeared on her shoes and peppered up her back of her slacks.
As the year hurried on, Vi felt the occasional burst of curiosity. She couldn’t imagine that was all Ant had wanted – to take her on the briefest of forays into the past. She felt a pang of regret for missing Rodborough Common and the market; more so for having had so little time to chat with Sunny. But her time was, as ever, occupied with work.
Until one April morning, when an envelope was handed to Vi by a young courier who, as the lift doors slid open, declared: “A letter for you. Very retro.” This envelope contained a single card, gold-embossed again:
Beltane.
Rodborough Common, by the fort.
Wednesday May 1. From 05:20.
On the back, in neat handwriting: ‘B&B reservation for M. Gilligan at The Stroud Hotel for the night of April 30.’ A week away.
“Seriously,” Vi muttered. There was no way she could go – work was far too busy, filling every waking moment. But nevertheless, in the days that followed she found herself looking up the train schedule to Stroud; feigning the beginnings of a migraine on the Tuesday afternoon, ready for a day off sick.
Vi caught a late train from Paddington and checked into the hotel, and rolled gratefully into bed. When the alarm went off it took her some time to work out that she was in a second-floor hotel room, not her twenty-fifth-floor studio.
She left at a quarter to five, treading carefully so as not to wake the other guests. She walked down past the canal lock and over the Frome bridge, the river swirling high underneath. As she trudged up Rodborough Hill in the quiet and the mist, she thought she heard the sound of bells jingling. There were a couple of figures ahead of her, bluish in the dim light.
Vi passed the gabled frontage of The Prince Albert, then the cattlegrid that marked the start of the Common. As she turned off to the track sweeping up the side of the hill, she saw the gatehouse. It had fallen into disrepair – the surrounding fence gone; the garden merging with the common land. Vi stood peering in through a dark window for a while - there with Aunty Sheel, Uncle Connor and Ant. She and Ant were passing tales of their exploits back and forth, laughing too much to make any sense.
As she passed the old quarry, Vi was zooming up and down the slopes on a borrowed bike with Ant, skidding in the mud. There was a pain in her throat that wasn’t from the effort, or the cold morning air.
Ones and twos had turned to a stream of people as Vi neared the area past the stone wall that marked the fort’s boundary. Shapes in the grey became clearer as the sun approached – first a depth of light that added definition to the tufted grasses and scrub of the common; the figures drawing together. Then a fresh glow that illuminated brushstroke clouds from below, in blush and salmon pinks. There was little wind, and smoke from a fire lit at the edge of the gathering rose almost vertically, signal-like. Vi fancied she saw one or two glowing spores, playing around the edge of the blaze.
A shout rang out – Vi couldn’t see from where, and then there were, it seemed, a hundred bells; a hundred feet stamped in unison. The crowd drew back, and the Morris dancers emerged to leap and move together, forming three or four concentric circles, each travelling in the opposite direction. The circles span faster and faster, hands and handkerchiefs flung into the air, as the crowd clapped and whooped and erupted into a great rolling cheer as – Vi saw – the sun emerged as a glowing slither, before bursting out over the hills that edged the Golden Valley.
Vi was soon lost in the celebration that followed. There were seven or eight Morris troupes that danced one after another, often pulling in revellers to join them. Many of the crowd were wearing greenery; someone placed a Hawthorn crown on Vi’s head. She was passed both beer and coffee, and her throat was soon hoarse from the chants and songs.
She searched for a spot to rest and, spreading her coat out on dewy grass, sat with her back to the stone wall. She noticed a small clump of dog violets next to her, sheltered in the gap under the stones. Small but mighty. She gazed out over the lightening Severn Estuary – the colours really were something this morning. A couple approached, one of them waving – it was Sunny, and a tall pale man with a wide smile.
“Violet! Merry Beltane! I’m so glad you’ve come. How are you? This is Sylvain, my partner.”
“Hi Sunny! Good to see you. Good to meet you Sylvain.” Vi found that she meant it, on both counts. She stretched out a hand, allowing herself to be helped up, and they walked downhill together to The Albert, which had opened early for the Beltane crew, serving breakfast rolls and coffee.
Sylvain left for work before long, but Vi and Sunny stayed to chat. Vi asked more about Ant’s life in Stroud, and listened to Sunny’s answers this time. A lot of Ant’s time had revolved around a community centre across the valley – The Trinity. Sunny insisted Vi come for lunch there so, late morning, they walked down the hill together, cutting across fields and the swollen Frome to climb the steep zigzag of Field Road.
The Trinity was an imposing Victorian building that Vi remembered hazily. They entered through a porch, peered into the white-painted vaulted hall. There were a few people sat around – at tables and on sofas – some chatting, others reading; a young woman knitting what looked to be a jumper. A bot, stood next to a table where two others were sat, swung round and raised an arm, tool extended. Sunny held up a hand in response. Vi was confused.
“Is that … the solicitor bot?”
“Phoebe Rose – yes. Phoebe does a lot for the community – ploughs a lot of the money they make into this place. They don’t need much to keep going, after all.”
“But isn’t it – aren’t they … owned by someone?”
Sunny tapped his nose conspiratorially. “We’ve worked things out. And Partners, remember. Phoebe seems happy with the arrangement. Actually, they worked closely with Ant on … well, Phoebe had a lot to do with bringing you here. You should talk, later.” Sunny seemed to waver, before his expression shifted into resolution. “I have something I’d like to show you. Something Ant wanted you to see.”
Vi decided to hold off on the questions she had about Phoebe. Sunny led her out of the front door, turning back on himself and following a path along the side of the building, edged by a lush garden. They came to a door set into the wall, above which was a hand-painted image: the stylised silhouette of a bird, its head arched over, almost touching its tail.
Below, in swirling calligraphy:
Sankofa: It is not wrong to go back for that which you have forgotten
(with thanks to Kofi)
The Ark: Stroud Archives
Established by Antonia (Ant) Gilligan, May 2050.
They stepped into the bright, high-ceilinged room. Lining the walls were shelves, all labelled, on which were stacked books, files, and boxes of all shapes and sizes. There was a large, high table in the middle of the room, a console and screen embedded at either end, each with a set of headphones. Sunny fiddled with one of the consoles.
“I’ve booked it out for you. You can have it for the full hour, if you need. The catalogue’s here.” Sunny tapped the screen, revealing a bird symbol like the one above the door. He headed back into the Trinity’s main hall.
It didn’t take long for Vi to discover a wealth of material – papers and artefacts, sound and video files - that brought to life not only the present and past of manifold aspects of Stroud and its people, but also its connections to other places, other people, both near and distant. The catalogue was functional, but Vi could already see ways to improve it. Out of curiosity, she entered her own name into the search field.
The results brought Vi to a small pine box labelled ‘Mite Gilligan.’ There were photos (when did she last see a printed photo?) of Ant and Mite gurning – as kids, then teens then young adults – always gurning, always full of joy – as they invariably had been. Mite wasn’t sure how she’d forgotten. There was a pressed dog violet mounted on a card, the words ‘mighty violet’ scrawled on the back in Ant’s spidery script. There were two lengths of wool – one purple, one green – twisted together. At the bottom, a blank envelope, unsealed.
Mite extracted a folded sheet of paper, opened out Ant’s final brief letter to her:
Perhaps you are missing?
What d’you think Mite? Stay? Look after the Ark?
Think about it. Please.
All my love,
Ant xxx
Sunny put his head round the door. “Need a little more time?”
He hesitated at Mite’s nod. “She really wanted you to look after all this. She knew you could do it justice.”
Mite waved him away, smiling through watery eyes.
“Okay, okay.” Sunny put up his hands and backed out, closing the door gently.
Mite sat at the high table, rubbing the green and purple yarn between finger and thumb. She could see two paths – two threads.
It would be so easy to head back down the hill, board the next train, slide back into her life. Back to the security of her flat, the consultancy. No need to think, nothing to untangle beyond the next project. Not much. But enough?
On the other hand …
