She tugged gently at his face, bringing him closer still, until his forehead is pressed to hers. Her eyes stare at him - through him - and then slide shut.
It comes over him, a warmth that speaks of safe places and home. The scent of the wisteria blossoms is strong on the wind as she continues to hold him.
There are places in the garden I have not heard of in a long time. Images fill his mind: a gazebo covered in moss and vines in the middle of a shallow pond with only stepping stones able to reach it, a rose bush that looks as if they have been speckled with paint, and then a place that looks as if it stuck in winter but a single flower blossoms.
... can you find those places for me? You can hear our voices and the wind has not carried their words back to me. I worry. Her hands give his cheeks a soft pat before he is released.
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