Nancy Wakeley

“She curled up in her bed and dozed off and on through another misty day. She opened the French doors and let in the mist so that the outside was inside, and she dreamed and listened to her heartbeat and the distant rumble of thunder and the sound of water dripping from the eaves onto the slate below. She smelled the damp bark and the soil that was constantly grinding the leaves back into itself. She could almost hear it.”
― Nancy Wakeley, Heirloom