It was a phrase that Nicholas’ grandmother, Rosalinde, cheerfully chirped as she went about her business. He preferred the summer as well, as it seemed the old woman slowed down with whatever she was up to. It was even nicer to see her in a more delightful mood. She took his proposal of…
A woman walked down the rue in the opposite direction. If one would pick a single word to describe her, it might be “grey”…Her hair was a wild and tangled mess of the color, and her eyes the same. The base of her neck sloped down to broad shoulders, and though her face could be called pretty, it was most often called plain. Her height was tall by technicality only, for whatever scant inches she had over others were of little importance.
This woman of grey, she dressed in an earthen shirt with lighter sweater over it, but the front was zipped open halfway to take advantage of the agreeable weather. She held in her crossed arms an urn, of saturated red with green leaves haphazardly painted on. She regarded the urn very carefully, paying more attention to it, perhaps, than she should be whilst walking.
