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It wasn’t surprising that the post box was empty, but it was amazing that the steps had been cleared and that a light came on in the hallway on entering. 


Music and voices, some of them children, even a dog barking brought the house to life. The place, though still dingy and smelling of damp and dirt, no longer felt derelict.


When I shoved open the door to the room and saw the lamp, I gasped a little, I’d almost forgotten, rushing to the plug I felt it for overheating 


cool, I let out a grateful breath and uttered a prayer under another breath 


which was making ghosts in the air it was so cold and so I put the electric fire on, having inspected its plug and flex for wear. 


The kettle boiling, cinnamon tea in a large mug waiting to be revitalised, I stood at the window looking at the hills above the snow line, still coated white and picture postcard beautiful when there was a quiet, tentative knocking at the door 


On opening, a frail, wan, thin young woman wrapped in many layers of woollens smiled a tired smile, kindness in her pale blue eyes as she held out some mail to me with the brief explanation ; Put in my box, a mistake I think. I keep them for you. 

And as I took them and thanked her she replied you’re welcome and, looking over my shoulder, commented; I’m Vanya, I think my room is warmer than yours, you’re welcome to come and warm yourself anytime 


and as I started to explain thank you but I don’t actually live here….. she waived my excuses away with her pale and elegant hand, saying I must go and check on my child now see you soon and I gave a little wave myself and said thanks once again then


so I turned back to the room, closed its door as quietly as it's bulging timber would allow, and made my cinnamon tea then sat down to look at the three envelopes Vanya had handed me 




                                                                            🍂


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