The old farmhouse.

The old farmhouse.

As I walk for miles, the scent of the beach comes near. Then the fields of wheat appear, and as I cross, I can see a farm in the fog. So I tap on the window pane, and I can hear whispers in my ears from many years ago. I have nowhere else to go. I can see the blue Spurt of a lighted match in the window and in my mind, it's all come flooding back a voice I can hear of joy and fear. Then I hear the echos of two hearts beating in the air. Then they disappear.