It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.

I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her.

The human child – so much cannier at times than the stupefyingly ponderous adult.

Warily, she dares to allow me a smile. "It's okay. It's just...I'm not too good at talking to people." She looks away again as her shyness smothers her. "So, do you think it'd be all right if we don't talk?

You should know it yourself- a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.

The days and nights come apart. I feel them corroding at the seams.

I only know that all of those people would have sensed me that night, excluding the youngest of the children. I was the suggestion. I was the advice, my imagined feet walking into the kitchen and down the corridor.