Each had always possessed its own quiet beauty. Somewhere along the way, through years of use, weather and gentle care, something else had appeared. Time had not diminished them. It had quietly bestowed upon them an elegance they could never have possessed when they were new.

By the time the weekend arrives, it's easy to feel as though we should make the most of it. There's always another café to try. Another exhibition to see. Another picturesque street to wander through. We collect lists of places worth visiting, hoping that somewhere among them we'll find the evening we're looking for. And I enjoy those days as much as anyone. But every now and then, I find myself choosing a different destination. Instead of putting on my shoes, I make a cup of

Reflection number 1 The first reflection in Roots of Reflection contains remarkably few words. Mossquill writes that "Wonder rarely announces its arrival." He leaves the thought there, without much explanation. The illustrator, whoever they were, responds not with landscapes or spectacles, but with flowers quietly blooming from the thoughts of an ordinary woman. It reminded me of something. For some time I couldn't remember what and then I recollected. I once met a woman who

A Partial Map of Thistlewood While examining the books stacked upon the table in the library beyond the Blue Window, a loose sheet of paper slipped from between the pages of an atlas. At first I mistook it for a blank page. Only when I held it up to the light did I notice a faint coastline traced across its surface. The original map of Thistlewood still lay open on the table before me. The sheet appeared to be a copy of that larger map, though incomplete and considerably fade

It was no longer a window. It had become a door. Or perhaps it had always been a door and I had simply failed to notice.