My country life was far from exciting. I was gardening in the early hours of the morning, cooled by the freshness of the first summer days. Then, I was having breakfast on the terrase of my back garden. Bread and butter, an egg, and a cup of tea was enough for me. Later on, I was surrending to writing in my attic room. Sheets of paper, inkpots, nibs, and flowers from my own garden were enough, bringing along the muses of inspiration. I was writing passionately, with a surprising joy. The book that was to follow my life seemed dull, all of a sudden. So my character had turned into a brave, ambitious hero who would have done anything to make his dreams come true. The only thing we had in common was our name.

At lunch, whenever I remembered about it, I was having some cheese with fresh vegetables I grew myself. Later, there was the siesta, after which I was wandering the cliff and the shores, breathing the smell of the dry grass, the sand, and the sea. Then, I was surrendering to writing again until the dawn was catching me sipping from the cup of a life that should have been mine.

I was going to the village on rare occasions when my supplies were dropping off. The only groceries I bought from the grocery store were baguettes, cheese, and wine. The grocer learned of my habits and he didn't ask for money, finding every cent on the small tray on the counter.

I still couldn't make any friends. Who would've have wanted a quiet, lone young man as a friend? One who would always walk with his head down, and a hat that covered almost his entire freckled-face, too sensitive in the sun. After a couple of months, no one looked at me with inquisitiveness anymore, though the chances of becoming one of them were scarce.

I was content with my life, even though some might have considered it dull and empty. Yet, her memory did not scatter with the passing of time. In my case, time didn't heal, and the regrets were tormenting me increasingly more. Was I the only one who thought she might have had feelings for me? Maybe she didn't even remember me, now, that her life had changed so much. Maybe she was happy with her new, wealthy husband, and maybe his generosity had made her love him. Maybe she got used to her new life and forgot about the shy, red-headed young man who couldn't have offered what she deserved anyway. Maybe...

I soothed my longing by writing. Under my pen, taking the shape of the thin letters, my life was different. She was coming to me, admitting she had loved me all the entire time. She had left her husband and decided to live with me in the house on the cliff. We had two children, two girls who looked exactly like her, and who were brightening our lives. I was a relatively successful writer, making enough money to have a decent life. She was taking care of the house and the girls' education, and I used to catch her unawares, smiling between the freshly washed sheets that were dancing in the wind as if brought to life. Our little girls were frolicking in the creek near the house, waving their hands at me.

Our life was simple and perfect under the ivory skies scattered above our home. Between the pages of my book, I was happy...

A shorter chapter, this time, but one with important meanings for the ones to follow. Thank you for reading!