I'm at home as usual, reading the book I had bought at the library this morning. The rustling of pages is a sound that I know very well. Quiet and soft, but at the same time overflowing with the loudness that the words inside contain. You just have to close your eyes and it's there. It's an interesting book, one that could have claimed top place in my mental shelf, but something feels wrong with the characters. It's like they float away, becoming ever more detached from the story. The pages rustle softly as I turn them, but my mind starts to wander. Finally I decide to put down the book and switch to staring outside the window. It's raining. The rain falls gently, raindrops contracting and expanding, all in tune with the stirrings of the heart. The world outside is blurred, the edgings of buildings and trees erased by the curtain of rain. I watch as the raindrops trace erratic paths down the window, merging and parting like thoughts in my mind. It takes me a few moments to realise it's not raining anymore. The rain's stopped, but the world outside still holds that softened, dreamlike quality. The wet leaves of the trees glisten under the soft light, and the air feels fresh, as if it's been washed clean. I glance at the clock on the table: almost five. I decide to take a break and make myself a cup of tea while waiting for my husband. I return my favourite spot by the windowsill, cup of tea in my hand, and watch as the last drops of rain fall from the eaves. The warmth of the tea radiates through the cup, and I take a sip, savoring the comforting flavor. The steam rises gently, mingling with the soft, fresh air that drifts through the slightly open window. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the peaceful atmosphere seep into my thoughts.As I sit there, the sound of a key turning in the lock reaches my ears. I