A smattering of blue sky against the clouds.
Crisp autumn breeze and the click-clack of shoes against the cobblestone.
They are not joyous things in my mind. They are quiet, withdrawn.
There was once a personality that walked these halls, far more ecstatic than all the children in the square.
But she’s gone now.
And she can’t come back.
Never again will I see her face.
She won’t hum joyous tunes in the kitchen when the oven is hot and flushes all our faces.
She won’t be scrubbing and dusting in all the crevices the rest of us can’t reach.
She won’t be there at all