Golden hour glow and favorite cozy knits – feeling like we’re wrapped up in a dream today ✨ A little bit of that perfect autumn chill, maybe a hint of rain outside… doesn’t matter! Just us, our coffe...

Golden hour glow and favorite cozy knits – feeling like we’re wrapped up in a dream today ✨  A little bit of that perfect autumn chill, maybe a hint of rain outside… doesn’t matter! Just us, our coffe...

Here we go...

“The wool’s always been scratchy, hasn't it? Not our wool, not really. This one was Mum’s, of course. Always had to be something solid, needed anchoring. A bit too much drifting around otherwise. Like the memory of him - hazy edges, but undeniable.” We shift our weight, ever so subtly, the heel of our boot catching faintly on the Persian rug beneath—a detail he wouldn’t notice, probably. He never did quite notice things, did he? More likely to have been staring out the window, lost in his thoughts, which were often more interesting than the ones happening within reach.

It feels like ages since that last argument, doesn’t it? Or maybe it felt like forever then. Now it’s just…this. The quiet. It can be comfortable sometimes, this quiet. Familiar, even. Almost soothing against the constant hum of the city outside – a muted rumble compared to the storm that used to rage every other week. That particular thunderstorm, though...that was when she arrived, wasn't it? Your mother. Dressed all brightens and smiles, a glass of champagne for everyone but us.

We haven’ed spoken about her explicitly today, no need. Too many layers already. Just you there, perched on the edge of the armchair, camera bag slung low, judgingly. Probably. Though perhaps it’s not judgement, not entirely. Maybe it’s hope, masked by a slight bemusedness. After all, you look rather like he did, don’t you? Same stubborn chin, same tendency to ignore the obvious."

A small smile plays at the corner of our lips, almost hidden amongst the lines of time etched onto our face. "So, what do you say? Another photo?”

We turn our gaze back to you, the question hanging in the air like dust motes dancing in the afternoon light. Now, if only we dared admit how nice it is to see familiar faces…”


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