I’m not sure why, or when, but things have changed. Maybe it was a gradual process, so slow it crept stealthily upon my back until I wore it like a heavy coat of sodden moss.
I couldn’t tell you what exactly has changed. I just know things are different, and that somewhere beyond this icy fog of confusion, there is a bench made of timber slats and ornate cast iron, that sits comfortably beside a lake, and it's quiet, and the breeze is gentle, and the lake is calm.
