Cotswolds Series
Though the air was cold and damp, he felt no chill, his mind trapped in another time. The snow had been softly falling throughout the afternoon and had begun to blanket the English countryside north of Chipping Campden, and as dusk was approaching, the thicker and faster it came. The raw beauty of the rolling hills glistened with fresh snow as the last rays of sunshine, what little there was peeking through the gray, framed the hills in an amber glow. He’d never witnessed such a scene, the countryside serving as a real-life pallet, the sun and snow the brush and paint, altogether forming a mystical picture of home life for the locals, and history for him. The ache within deepened.
He had travelled back to England for the first time since he had been there with her, almost twenty years earlier. Truthfully, he didn’t know why he had come; he just knew he had to. He had woken up every day for a month with the same thought - go to the Cotswolds and see - and had not been able to shake it. Finally, he had purchased a one-way ticket, unsure of when he was to return to his home in the mountains of eastern Tennessee where he had lived for the past three years. He had booked a room in a little cottage on the outskirts of Chipping Campden, near St. James Church, and after arriving a couple of hours earlier and unpacking his meager backpack, he had simply been meandering the backroads and fields with little more than a turtleneck sweater, which he had surprisingly found buried deep in his closet back home, and a fleece jacket better suited for autumn.
Somehow he only felt refreshed by the cold sticky air and the thick flakes of snow. They were barely swirling, falling almost straight down, with a slight breeze whispering by every few minutes or so. He realized that there had been no traffic, or at least none that he had seen or heard, and the snow seemed to have enfolded the entire countryside with a tranquility that made him think of a serene postcard depicting, well…Christmas in the Cotswolds.
The sun finally slipped below the horizon and he was still a few hundred meters from town. He could hear the snow crunching under his boots, so he began to watch his footing a bit more closely. The lights of the town up ahead dotted the landscape, and once more he felt the haunting ache.
For a while he had felt sorry for himself. When he had married her twenty-six years ago he had never guessed that he would have to make it through much of his life without her. They had never had children, at first a choice, and by the time they were open to the idea, she had gotten sick. He stopped for a second and looked upward, exhaling steam and watching it float away.
As he looked back down he realized that he was standing beside an old wooden bench. It seemed out of place (and was it even there a second ago? surely it was). And though he was starting to feel the first breath of chill against his face, he decided to rest for a second. It was only a few minutes more to town, anyway. He had told himself before he left the states that he would pause wherever he found himself and just feel - or had he been told to do so? It wasn’t just a stop and smell the roses kind of thing either, more like a knowing that he was supposed to. He could not have explained that to anyone, even himself, but it was what it was.
He sat and breathed in the cold air - yes, it was getting colder - and watched as his thoughts traced back to the last time he was here in Chipping Campden. With Julie. He took a deep breath. He found that he needed to do that a lot. He guessed that there was maybe fifteen or twenty minutes of fading light remaining as the sun set further behind the hills. And though his heart ached, he somehow felt right - that was the word - as if he truly was supposed to be right here, right now. Of course he was lonely, but he had gotten used to that, hadn’t he? At least he had learned to live without the loss ripping through his soul during every waking moment.
He turned his head to the left and peered through the thickening snowfall up the crazy little English road and thought of the rickety house in town where he and Julie had stayed decades earlier, where they had laughed hysterically at the loud creaky boards beneath their feet, and yes, the rickety creaking bed-boards as they had made love. He smiled, the ache rising up. “Bits and pieces,” he remembered the host saying, referring to their luggage at the time. He barely could call up anything else in his mind. He chuckled, puffs of steam slipping out between grunts. “Bits and pieces,” he whispered to no one.
That’s when it all began to happen.
There was a small stone cottage set off the road maybe fifty to seventy-five meters, cockeyed to his left just a little. Though deep in thought, it caught his attention, and kept drawing his eyes back to it. There seemed to be a faint glow seeping out of a side window, the only light noticeable from where he sat. He wondered if anyone was home. There were wisps of black smoke twirling up into the darkening sky from a chimney, he could somehow make that out. For some reason, the cottage seemed out of place.
Something else puzzled him as he gazed at the cottage. He couldn’t put his finger on it at first, narrowing his eyes to look closer. He shot a glance at the town further up to the left and then back at the cottage. Now he knew. All of the structures in Chipping Campden had layers of soft snow caking their respective roofs, but for some odd reason no snow had yet settled onto the roof of the cottage. He wondered if maybe they had some kind of new-fangled solar panels or whatnot built in. Probably not. He shook his head and laughed softly to himself.
Funny thing, he didn’t notice the cottage on the way out of town earlier, or even as he was making his way back. This was not outrageous, he realized, as it is quite easy to overlook things when your mind is consumed with other thoughts. Still, each of these little coincidences, a word he was trying to remove from his vocabulary, kind of bunched up on each other and stood a little higher in his mind. In and of themselves they were obviously insignificant with little meaning, he told himself, but altogether they began to tug at him. He closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath through his nostrils, held it briefly, then softly exhaled as he opened his eyes, a long plume of steam fogging the air in front of him.
When the fog dissipated, the cottage stood out against the landscape like a crystal clear photograph against a silhouette. The inner voice, for that is what he had come to think of it as, nudged him. There were no words, just another knowing, like the one that led him here in the first place. He was fast learning to follow the voice, though he had no idea where it would lead him, except to the Cotswolds a few days before Christmas, of course. He wondered if it might even mean harm to him, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but it did not feel that way. He took another deep breath, rubbed his hands together while exhaling into them, suddenly becoming more aware of the falling temperature, and rose from the bench and crossed the road. He placed his hand on the small wooden gate, pushed it open, and walked the pathway to the cottage.
As he stood on the small front porch he heard what sounded like feet shuffling about, knocked firmly, thought maybe a pan or pot clanked on a stove inside, and then the door began to slowly, stubbornly open. A woman looked out from halfway behind the door, and at first there was a shadow falling across her eyes. She adjusted her stance and the shadow fell away. The eyes were eerily familiar, or so it seemed, and he realized that he had no idea what to say. He had come to the cottage as he felt led by the voice, expecting to know what to say or do when the moment came, and though the moment appeared to be upon him, he simply stood there.
“Jules,” the woman called out, looking back over her shoulder. “He’s here.”
He smiled. It almost sounded as if they were expecting him; or at least expecting someone.
“Please come in,” she said.
He stepped forward, over the threshold, and as he passed into the cottage he felt the strangest sensation, one that later he would describe as a form of metamorphosis. No other word seemed to fit, and even it was off kilter a bit. He had sensed that he was instantly melding into a vapor field, not unlike what he had witnessed a thousand times as heat rises off the horizon in the distance, yet enveloping his body, his being, for a brief moment in time. But that did not even seem right, for time lost its meaning in that passage. And it wasn’t just the visual, it was that knowing again, the body taking in, or absorbing, a feeling that he was transformed. Into what, or who, he had no idea, but he was somehow different.
As his boot landed softly on the welcome mat inside the heavy oaken door, he saw her. She stepped out of the darkened room from the back of the house and the kitchen light settled upon her face.
“Thanks for coming so quickly,” she said. “I knew you would.”
He stood there transfixed, every emotion he had ever experienced rushing in like a tsunami. He couldn’t speak. He could only look.
It was Julie.
Before he knew what had happened, Julie’s sister, the woman who had opened the door, had disappeared and Julie had grabbed him by the hand and led him to a small table against an inner wall. He sat down. She brought a steaming kettle of tea over and poured some into his cup and then hers. He remained silent.
Finally, he took his eyes off of her and surveyed the small kitchen and the sitting area over in the front right corner. There was something unique about this place, something that gently tugged at his mind as if it wanted to let him know some secret. For starters, it was a bit dated, which wasn’t especially odd. Many of the homes he had been inside of in England seemed as if they were frozen in time. Also, if he didn’t know better, he would have thought that there were eyes scattered about the room watching them. Well, maybe not eyes, but a presence that shifted here and there, observing him. He realized that he would have normally considered that to be paranoia, but he only felt relaxed. How, he wondered, could he feel so calm, sitting in Chipping Camden in a mysterious little cottage with Julie, his wife, who had been deceased for over five years?
He looked back at her and she smiled warmly, the same smile he had seen a million times, the one that had always melted him. His heart could barely take it. Yet he remained silent, somehow certain that he was supposed to wait for her, allow her to lead this meeting, this, this, well, damned if he could figure out what this was. He took a sip of his tea.
“I prayed for you to come,” she began. “We are almost out of hope, out of time.”
Her head fell forward and she sighed deeply, a stream of tears falling effortlessly from her beautiful dark green eyes. He loved how she could cry so softly, so sweetly, so heartfelt, without her chin quivering or barely a facial movement at all, other than the tears spilling out. He felt his own eyes moisten.
“I really can’t say how it happened,” she raised her tear-stained eyes to meet his. “I’ve watched him deteriorate for the past weeks, begging God to heal him. It’s only gotten worse, day by day. The doctors have told me there is no hope. But I’ve kept praying, asking for a miracle, you know. I didn’t know what else to do.”
She sighed softly, took a long, slow sip, and swallowed the tea. She bit her lip, looked around the room, and then back at him. “Maybe I’m not supposed to ask this, but…are you…I mean…are you…?” And she began to convulse into deep sobs.
He reached his hand towards her, hesitated with his hand hovering over hers, then pulled it back.
“Are you,” she sniffled, still with her head lowered, “an angel?” She raised her head and peered deeply into his eyes.
Nothing had prepared him for that question. Of course, he felt ill-prepared for this whole confounding sequence of events, starting with his mind (or was it the voice?) pestering him every morning with that get thee to the Cotswolds message, to the only roof in the area that didn’t collect snow, to, well, the fact that his deceased wife was sitting right in front of him, clueless as to who he was, thinking he might even be a damn angel.
He fidgeted with a figurine on the table, a little greenish marble something that looked like a sprite or an elf, or, as he looked at it a little closer…an angel? Whatever. If there was one thing he knew he wasn’t, it was an angel. He looked at her and sighed. What to say?
“Hmmm. I really don’t know what I would call myself,” he said. “I just felt like I was directed here.”
He realized as soon as he had answered her that he hadn’t really even meant to speak, or even that he was definitely going to say anything. It sort of just came out. He was doing the talking, of course, but it felt like somehow the words were forming on his lips without his totally being in control of it. He felt certain that he was in control, yet he sensed that maybe he was being nudged along. From where or by whom (the voice?), he couldn’t rightly say, but he felt strange about it all. Who wouldn’t? he said to himself.
She closed her eyes serenely, a soft smile forming on her lips. “Thank you so very much. You are an answer to prayer. You are my angel…our angel.”
She took another sip from her cup and then pushed herself back from the table. She said, “Would you like to go see him now?”
“Sure.”
Julie left the kettle on the table and nodded to the back bedroom, the one she had come out of a few minutes earlier. She then turned and walked that way. He followed. As he entered he could see that there was someone sleeping in the bed. The breathing was labored, a hoarse, wheezy sound, and as he got closer he could tell it was a child. On the wall past the bed were a couple of old-fashioned photographs, one of a little fellow playing cricket, another of Julie and a young boy of seven or so on a park bench feeding some pigeons. The kid looked familiar.
“His name is Jack,” Julie said, and he felt the room start to close in on him. His eyes got blurry as if he were looking through crystal clear vials that were filling up rapidly with a million silver pins. The room began to spin, and Jack Rogers knew he was falling…
“I didn’t know angels could faint,” Julie said as she dabbed his forehead with a cool, damp towel.
“Me either,” Jack said.
“What happened?” she asked.
Well, this voice told me to come to Chipping Campden, and then I found you, my wife, who passed away over five years ago, or at least her spitting image, and then I see your son, who apparently you named after me and who looks an awful lot like I did as a kid… That’s what he thought, but what came out was, “I don’t know. I guess I’m not used to the snow and the chimney fire and all. Just got a little heated, maybe. I’m feeling better.”
He was sitting in an oversized chair that was next to the bed, probably where Julie spent most of her time.
“Could you leave us alone for a few minutes?” Jack heard himself say. And he had meant to say it; he just didn’t realize that fact until he heard the words spoken.
Julie appeared surprised for a second and hesitated, removing the towel from Jack’s head.
“Of course, sure. Om…sure.”
She stood up and started to step toward the door. She turned back. “Will you need anything?”
Good question, Jack thought. “No,” he said.
As the door shut behind Julie, Jack turned to look upon the little fellow asleep in the bed. He leaned closer, wondering what on earth he was supposed to do next. Supposed to do? He asked himself. Am I supposed to DO something?
He sat back in the chair and sighed. He didn’t really believe in God, per se, though he figured somebody or something must have done something to spark things, to make it so that Jack was here on this earth trying to…progress, or learn, or damn, it was all so confusing! But today, well, how do you put two and two together and come up with this? And that voice thing, or whatever it was that kept nudging him here and there, and now even seeming to take his own voice and talk for him. He guessed that he could be kind of losing it, that would probably explain this whole mess, but if he was going nuts, how the hell could it feel so real? Maybe that’s how it works, he wondered.
As if on cue, the voice edged its way back in. He tried to listen, but he realized it was really more like trying to feel. He relaxed, and as he did, all of a sudden he felt himself waking up, though he didn’t think he had been asleep. But there was a picture in his mind like it had been imprinted in there while he was - asleep? nodding off for a sec? between thoughts? - relaxed.
Jack had been given options, that is what the picture was telling him. He could say a prayer over little Jack and head out the door and through the shimmering vapor and grab his bits and pieces and back to Tennessee, no harm in that. Get back to his life and never have to listen to the voice again. Yeah, that was one of the options, one that Jack knew deep inside was not pickable, though it was the only one with any semblance of normalcy. Then again, normalcy had run its course in Jack’s life and he reckoned that it was overrated.
He had already spent a fair amount of time in his mind bouncing the Julie thing around. He’d reached the conclusion that this Julie was the same as the one he had married, just deposited into a different life, is all. After she had died he had said to himself a million times that he would do anything just to be with her again. Anything. Of course he had known the impossibility of such a request, the fact that life as Jack knew it didn’t allow for such fantasies to be played out. So what the hell was this? This was Julie, wasn’t it? Not exactly what he had begged the universe for, but in the damnedest way he could imagine, it kind of worked.
His heart ached feverishly and yet felt a melancholic gratitude that he might be able to do something for the woman he loved. Though that little detail had not been worked out in his mind either.
It was as if, once he had chosen option number four, all the other ones evaporated from view, and he had to wait for guidance. So he did.
He thought about Julie in the other room, probably on her knees begging God to do his work through his angel, of which Jack knew he surely was not. Or was he? He didn’t know anything about angels, or at least figured he didn’t. Were they real? And if so, is this how they do their thing, pop into other worlds without knowing they are angels and just follow a voice? God it was all so confusing. The only thing he was absolutely certain of was that he still loved Julie, his wife, with all of his heart, and he would gladly give everything, absolutely everything, to be able to make her happy, even if it was in an alternate universe - is that what this is? - and she had no idea who he was.
Jack felt his strength coming back and all the dizziness that had overcome him falling away. He took a few deep breaths and figured he had better get on about the business of doing what he was supposed to do.
“I’m ready,” he said out loud. To himself and to whoever might be guiding him.
Little Jack moaned and fidgeted under the covers.
Jack reached to touch little Jack, knowing that he was somehow being led. He rolled little Jack over where he could see his face. My God, he thought. He barely looked alive. He knew that look - the pale, clammy, skeletal look. Then it began to happen, and Jack almost jumped up and ran out of the room. That godawful sound that his Julie had made, what they call the death rattle, started crawling up out of little Jack’s throat and slamming Jack’s heart. Oh God no! Jack felt a panic attack coming on, deja vu slapping him in the face.
He sat back for a second and closed his eyes. Alright, listen here, you damn voice, or whatever the hell you are. I’m here, I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Get me through this now, somehow, for Julie’s sake. And then, just in case - Amen!
He opened his eyes…and instantly knew what he had to do. The voice didn’t even have to tell him. On the flight over to England, due to technical difficulties, The Green Mile was the only movie available. It got stuck on a highly improbable loop for which the airline attendant in charge apologized profusely. She had even said what the fuck? over the intercom, again apologizing profusely. Then, in his rental last night, the “telly” in the room had a DVD player attached to it, the only DVD available being The Green Mile. Jack had marvelled at the coincidence, just now remembering that he was to forget that there was even a word called coincidence.
He chuckled to himself, the obviousness of the situation clear. The thought would have been abhorrent, even nauseating, had it not been so clear. Anyone who has seen the movie or read the book by Stephen King would know that Jack knew what he had to do.
He had no idea what would follow, so he paused for a second and thought of Julie, his wife in the states who had passed, and the woman pacing the floor on the other side of the bedroom door. Though they lived in two different worlds, their hearts were the same. Julie had so wanted a child once they had made the decision before she fell ill. He would now do all within his power to give her her child…back.
He leaned over little Jack and placed his mouth over his and breathed in as little Jack breathed out…
Jack placed the fleece jacket on the coat hanger as he entered his room in what seemed only a few minutes later. He felt awful. After inhaling little Jack’s disease he had almost run out of the cottage, but not before looking down at the little fellow and watching the color run back into his face within seconds. His breathing had appeared normal. He had even opened his eyes and looked into Jack’s in a kind of knowing way, no words spoken. Julie had run in and almost knocked Jack over on her way to the bed. No matter what happened from that moment on, it was worth it for Jack to see Julie’s face when she looked at little Jack.
Jack had tried to make it out the front door without a fuss, but Julie had run him down and grabbed his arm. He could tell that she wasn’t sure if she should hug an angel or not, but she did, grabbing Jack and squeezing him like that time when they had received the diagnosis of her illness.
“There’s something about you,” little Jack’s mom had said, shaking her head and squinting her eyes as if she was trying to remember something. “I could never thank you enough.”
Jack was feeling an awful congestion rise up in his chest and throat and sensed that if he stayed it was going to get worse. Much worse. He pecked her cheek and looked deep into her eyes. “You already have.”
He smiled weakly and turned, opened the door, and stepped out.
And now, back at the room he was renting (he couldn’t remember how he got back, must have walked, obviously), he sat on the edge of the bed and tried to relax. He couldn’t tell if the gurgle was getting any better or worse, but he suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion unlike any he could ever recall. His eyes got heavy. He rolled back the covers on the bed, stripped down to his underwear, and slid in. He could hear himself snore within seconds.
———————
The first sound of the morning was the drip, drip, drip of the melting snow, followed by the call of a songbird of some sort. Jack pried his eyes open and took a deep breath. The rattle was gone and his chest felt great. His heart, though, was instantly heavy, the melancholy of a thousand griefs washing through him.
Normally an early riser, he glanced at the clock by the bed and saw that it was almost 11:00 AM. Of course, he hadn’t made it to bed until two or three, but still, he never slept in this late, no matter what. Maybe it had something to do with that Green Mile stunt he pulled. Yeah, probably so.
He made it down to a local pub a few minutes before noon and was pleased to find a roaring fire and a cozy spot near the fireplace. The clouds were rolling back in and spitting out a new batch of snow. He loved the stonework in the pub and the old slanted beams that sagged as if they were just about ready to splinter into a thousand pieces and bring the roof down. He ordered a warm ale and some shepherd’s pie.
He was thankful that the melancholy was drifting away, allowing more of a peaceful satisfaction to take its place. He sipped on the ale and waited for the pie. An older gentleman hobbled up to the table.
“I hope I’m not bothering you, there,” he said. “I just wanted to say hello. We aren’t exactly bustling at the moment. You’ll see, though, the locals will start stumbling in here any minute now.”
He smiled, one front tooth missing. It gave him charm.
“You’re not bothering me at all,” Jack said. “Are you the proprietor?”
“Aye, I am.” He stuck out his hand. “Gerald McDill. Seems I got a little Irish in me.”
He laughed. Then cocked his head. “I know it’s none a my business, but I am the curious type. What brings you here to our little lovely village, if I may ask?”
“The name’s Jack and I don’t mind. But that question is a helluva lot trickier than you figure it to be, I’ll swear you.” He took another swig of the warm ale. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Ah, you’d be surprised. Lotsa stuff goes on around here that boggles the noggin’, I say. I’ve heard me my fair share a stories.”
The man, who looked to be seventy if he was a day old, nodded away. Jack reckoned he believed him, but decided against telling him his story. He wouldn’t even know where to begin.
“I do have a question,” Jack ventured. “What do you know about the family that lives in the cottage about four or five hundred meters out of town past the church, on the left, the one set about fifty or seventy-five meters back off the road?”
The old man cocked his head. He looked at the fireplace for a second and then back at Jack.
“I don’t reckon I know which one you’re talking about, Jack. There used to be a cottage there years ago, maybe thirty or so, but even then it had been abandoned for quite a spell. You sure you got the right direction?”
Jack thought for a quick second. “Probably not.”
A patron squeaked the door open and stumbled in, like the man had suggested they would, and shot a look over their way. “A pint, Gerald, a pint for me at the bar.”
“I guess I better go take care of him, Jack. Sure nice to meet you.”
He turned to walk away, but turned back around just as fast.
“By the way, that cottage you mentioned, or at least the one you brought to my mind. Helluva story about it. Ain’t sure if it’s true. A real fine woman used to live there with her son. Some say the son died, or was knocking like hell on death’s door, not sure which, and they had a visitor. Yeah, that’s what they say, a visitor. Anyways, as the story goes, the child lived. They called it the miracle around here.”
Jack took a big gulp of nothing but air. “What were their names?”
“Well, I didn’t know them, but a story like that stays around, you know. I can’t say I’m sure about hers, I think something like Joy, Judy, Jane, I can’t rightly recall. The boy’s name was…oh looky here. ‘Twas your name… It was Jack. They say the little boy’s name was Jack. ”
“Gerald, me pint, me pint,” the local called from the bar.
“Talk to you later, perhaps,” the proprietor said.
Jack ate the best shepherd’s pie he had ever eaten and finished up with a Guinness, more or less for dessert. He kept trying to wrap his mind around what the old Irishman had told him, knowing he probably never would be able to. He felt good, though, full and with a slight relaxed buzz. The little pub was filling up, a line forming, so he figured he would let someone else have his table. He paid the waitress who had come in right before it got busier and made his way to the door.
As he opened the door, he felt a tug on his elbow. He turned his head around. It was the proprietor.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Just to kinda fill in the rest a the story for you, at least as far as I know. The visitor, well…” he stopped, clucked his tongue while shaking his head. “They say he died right there on the side a the road between their cottage and town. Said he was lying there in the snow probably all night afore they found him. Said he looked awful, skeletal almost. Strange, huh?”
Jack just looked at him.
“Well, just thought you’d wanna know the rest a the story. I hope to see you back in here.”
He turned to go back to his work.
“Wait. Wait. One second. Do you know when this was?” Jack really didn’t know anything else to ask, or even why he was asking. But it seemed awful important at that moment.
The proprietor smiled big. “Well, that detail I do happen to know. Some things stick in your craw. When I heard the story they gave a date to it, and though I didn’t recall all the details, that one was easy, ‘cause it fell on the same day I married my sweet Margaret, God rest her soul. Yes sir, that date I will always remember. ’Twas February 4, 1968. Well, have a good day, and please come back!”
Jack trudged back to the cottage he was staying at as the snow continued to fall, his mind racing. Maybe it was the ale, maybe the weather, maybe the fact that he had inhaled a deadly disease in the past 18 hours or so - that might do it - but he couldn’t seem to put it all together. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to, maybe just fly back to Tennessee and let it all go. But why then did he just happen to eat at a pub that just happened to be owned by a guy who just happened to get married on the same date that the visitor just happened to die (who, as far as Jack knew, was Jack)? Coincidences? Jack thought not.
Jack Rogers had been born November 16, 1968, and though he never gave it much thought, he remembered his mom always telling folks how little Jack had been so stubborn about following the doctors’ schedule, that he had been about two weeks late, and that he had maintained that stubbornness throughout his youth. As he now sat on the edge of his bed in Chipping Campden, England, and considered the timeline, he realized that he more than likely was conceived right about the same time that the visitor had died. Yeah, he was somehow certain that it was more than likely that very instant.
Well, he figured that no matter how much thought he gave to it he wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around that one. He sighed and began to throw what little he had into his backpack, deciding on the spot to make his way to the airport and jump on the first flight back home.
He left the cottage and hopped in his rental car, then began to slowly roll out of Chipping Campden, the snow crunching under the tires. As he approached the spot where the bench sat, he was somehow relieved to see that it was actually there, and he felt a sudden urge to pull over. He got out of the car and crossed the street, an old dilapidated gate barely hanging onto a post, looking like it might fall off at the first gust of wind. That could be the gate I walked through, he thought to himself. He looked to where the cottage was supposed to be, and of course, there was nothing there.
There was what appeared to be a pathway, though, barely visible, but somehow marked by the snow. He followed it to where the cottage must have been or seemed so in his memory. A few stones had fallen into a sort of pattern that he sketched in his mind as an outline that might have fit. He walked into where he envisioned the bedroom, stood with his eyes closed, breathed deeply a time or two, and reopened his eyes. A deep sense of melancholy filled his breast. He even felt a slight sense of congestion, probably just imagining it.
He turned to leave, much like he had last night - over fifty years ago? - and paused where he remembered the little table to have been, once more closing his eyes to picture the time of tea with her. He felt his eyes moisten and dropped his chin onto his chest. Then opened his eyes.
The clouds had parted about the time he had entered the cottage, it seemed, and the sun was now glinting off of something wedged up against a stone near his right foot, almost covered by snow. It was of a greenish color. He bent over and dusted the snow off of it and looked closer. At first glance, it looked like maybe an elf, or a sprite, perhaps. But as he held it close and inspected it more thoroughly, he was certain it was an angel.
