A Dream -- Friday 11 September

I'm wandering through Cicero's library, the scent of parchment and ancient ink hanging heavy like Mrs. Hargrove's cinnamon dough on a Sunday morning. I hear Grandma's laughter echoing off the marble columns, her joy weaving into the melody of a pianoforte played by some unseen maestro. The stars outside are distant diamonds, each one a memory stardust that we've both touched and loved. Yet they laugh louder now, their joy softened by time like an old photograph left in sunlight too long. I reach out to trace the worn patterns on Hermarchus' rug, but my fingers pass through empty air. Suddenly, Grandma's rocking chair creaks beside me, its rhythm matching the steady tapping of rain on the library's dome. "Winifred," she says, her voice a warm hum, "every melody you've ever heard is woven into your memories. Play them back for me sometime."