The woman sits on a bench overlooking the sea. Below, the child runs along the deserted beach, arms outstretched…

When she was young it was the sick room, post-war green painted walls you could chalk on, where you were quarantined if ill. She’d sit at the open window singing to the house next door – she loved folk tales.

She opens the door to the library and walks barefoot, following the arrows marking the way; turn right, turn left, straight ahead. Row after row of memories, stacked, classified, catalogued, labelled – shelved. Her fingers, playing moments like a harp, release the fragrance of sweet peas, damask roses. She has brought ribbons with her.