A heart

We're inevitably turning in to a reluctant, dysfunctional family of five within these sandstone walls - me, Henry and three of his "friends". We don't talk much and when we do it's never of any real significance, if there is still such a thing in this world.

He told me he loved me after more than a bottle of Champagne one afternoon in Paris, and I never said it back. That heavy sense of guilt has been weighing me down ever since, whenever I have the chance to make things right I stumble on the words and they remain unspoken.

And still, with every new night the sun slowly starts to set behind the mountains here as the birds stop singing and all slows to a silent heartbeat. We will wake again tomorrow, and the warmth will still be there.