As twilight receded the moon tapped its long spindly fingers on the window, wanting to enter but unable to do so; the old lace curtains barring its way. Through a narrow gap in the curtain she felt the magic creeping, watched as aging stars danced with newly born clouds, listened to the haunting winds that whistled softly through the autumn trees, whispering their melodious secrets to all.
Far off in the distance a nightingale sang its final song, while streams and rivers flowed between the memories locked deep within her failing mind; their journeys long and unending.
“From whence we came we shall return, if only to lay the ghosts to rest,” she thought, a smile returning to the lips that once kissed so sweetly.
Meanwhile bookcases stood laden with tales, captivating, enchanting, questioning, every story relevant to its age. Within their pages time a barrier broken, not a thing used to govern, manipulate and restrict.
But it was the walls that told the story, her story, with hardly a glimpse of real life to be seen the modern world hidden behind panelled doors, passed the gate beyond the trees, hidden around the many corners of her world.
Contentment was hers, her eyes no longer willing to see, to be part of that reality. This was where she’d longed to be, the fire gently roaring, a thick heavy rug at the foot of the large oak bed, the walls, its wallpaper fading and full of memories, sepia, black and white, no colours to distinguish the new from the old. This was her life, her very being displayed for all to see.
Laying under the cold heaviness of the old patchwork quilt cold, crisp cotton sheets beneath her, the clock on the mantle began to chime its doleful tones, the light from the last remaining candle flickering as it weaved furiously in and out of the shadows of its own creation.
It was time.
Reah Roberts ©2009