Ever since I awoke and returned to my habitual corner, portents have echoed in the click of my needles, in the breeze-like rustling of my wool. Within the bulging folds of new cloth which grew upon my lap, I saw the rise and dip of unknown mountain ranges. Sundays are always quiet, but this silence was so intense I could hear the thump of my heart and the creak of my joints. So when he came toward me, this man, nimble and upright for his age, when his shining eyes claimed my attention, his name — Philip Whip — passed through me like a ghost before I could have reason to hope it might be him. And now we are alone. Like the stirring of soft wings within the hard, dry casing of a caterpillar’s home, life is returning. The mean, grey years are falling from me. The dust has been so thick and so stifling that at first the memories were too blinding to be endured. Only through the kindness of the handsome face before me can I be guided safely back into the light, to memories of my Nicholas.
