The manicured English grounds were perfect in the low setting sun of the now wintry season as the end of the year approached. In this light, and impeccable setting, the cottage stood. There it stood, and had done so for many years before, behind the white stable door that led to its interior. Once a writer's abode and now once again inhabited by another one. The cottage, small and quaint, warmed by a log fire in the heart of it.
They had done it, they had caused it, they had set fire to what was now blazing and soaring in insurmountable flames - did they know, did they care, could they heal it... they could not and many would say would not.
Yet here in the cottage, surrounded by the beautiful green lands, the horses, the fields, green houses and historic features... the setting set a pace for rare moments of tranquility and an opportunity for the lungs to open wide and inhale the crisp winter air.
The trip drew nearer and upon that bird they would soar to other heights.
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