One step, two step. Skip. Almost trip.
“Be careful.” Not heard.
“Where are they, Grandad?”
Look left. Look right. Spin, balance.
A spot of rain falls on the grey/brown slab. “It’s raining, Grandad.”
“Not over here.”
There’s a whisper in the wind – not enough to change the clouds. She sits on the wall, scrapes a loose rock and writes a letter ‘T’.
“The rain will wash that off,” says the old man.
The girl stood up and ran the line to the wall.
“When will they come, Grandad?”
“Maybe never,” with a smile.
Back against the wall. Chin resting on chest.
“We’ve been here ages.”
Hiding behind the outcrop of stone, twist around. Side of the bench.
“I can leave you this.” She sits, sees the slats. “Will you remember the spots of rain?”
“I do, Grandad. But so much more.”

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