The wind carried the smell of rain across the valley, and the last light of the afternoon lingered on the hillsides.
She opened the ledger and began to read, though the words had been written in another hand many years before.
It was not the first time the old clock had stopped, but it was the first time anyone in the house had noticed.
By morning the market would be open again, and the quiet of the night would be traded for the noise of the day.
He counted the steps twice, once going up and once coming down, and each time he reached the same impossible number.
The letter mentioned a debt, a storm, and a key, but said nothing about when either of them might return.
Water pooled in the hollows of the flagstones, reflecting a sky that had gone the color of slate.
Every spring the same argument resumed in the kitchen, about the garden, about the fence, about the neighbor's dog.
The librarian placed the book on the cart with the others, then, after a moment, slipped it back onto the shelf.
Somewhere above the roof a bird called twice and fell silent, and the whole street seemed to listen.
The telegram was short, and the handwriting that accompanied it was shorter still, but the meaning took years to arrive.
At the far end of the harbor a single lamp burned green, marking the channel that no ship had used in a decade.