Sunlight through the leaves and that perfect worn-in sweater - feeling like this often! A little bit cozy, a lot of magic. Maybe just a hint of autumn breeze...or maybe it’s just us dreaming of pumpki...

(The cable knit cardigan feels scratchy tonight, doesn’t it? Like memory itself - familiar enough to be comforting, but always slightly prickly.)

“There.” That’s what he said last week. ‘Just a drink,’ he called it. Just a drink after all these years. And not too much trouble for a Thursday, apparently. He didn’t mention the silver ring, though. Not yet. Probably thinks we both forgot about that one, nestled away in the attic of our minds like a dusty photograph. It was a beautiful thing, wasn’t it? Too bright, maybe. Everything tends to be when it’s ours, until…well, until."

(A slight shift of the weight in the trouser leg. The wool isn't quite so tight here).

"It hasn’t been spoken, has it? Not really. No shouting, no tears, just...this. This quiet. Which can either be nice, sometimes. When it’s not too silent. Like a held breath waiting for something to happen, or nothing to happen. Always felt like there should be more than nothing, hadn’t there? We were certainly doing well then, weren’t we?”

(Our eyes drift out of focus, past you—a little hesitant, aren't we?) “Don’t look too critical. Your sweater looks rather drab compared to this French silk scarf – haven't worn it in ages, that’s true, but still lovely. Feels likeed to go back to Paris, somehow. To a time where the light used to catch everything perfectly.”

(Another glance – a flicker of recognition, perhaps? Or maybe just curiosity.) "Heard she mentioned seeing your dog yesterday. Said her boy had a good run with him. Bittersweet, those memories. Almost perfect. Now, don’t frown. It’s not like he’s demanding anything. Not yet.”

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