She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.

Memory is a cruel mistress with whom we all must learn to dance.

Darling girl, blinded by foolish thoughts of love. How to tell her that the hearts of men were not so easily won. If won, rarely kept.

I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.

Adults weren’t supposed to understand their children and you were doing something wrong if they did.

But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .

Percy climbed the first step, then the next, remembering the thousands of times she'd run through the door, in a hurry to get to the future, to whatever was coming next, to this moment.