into the dying light of the gloaming. Life always seemed brighter, more auspicious, at this time of the day. Something to do with the quality of the light, she supposed—so soft, so gentle—and the way it illuminated the treetops with gold. But right now the gloaming spoke of lives suspended, of an endless sense of waiting. But waiting for what—for things to get better or worse?
Many of the scenes are set during the gloaming …
