We approached the haunted house, the wind whistling in the leaves. The ghost appeared and we turned white. I revisit the museum and confront my own ghost. Take a powder. Paris sat up in bed.
Regrets come flooding back.
The name is personal, the face another pretty one. The wind dies down. When I return home everything is just as I left it. LOVE Five years ago I visited Tinhorn Abbey. Since then too many things have happened.