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It was different, yet it was the same. Everything about the provincial little village looked exactly as he had remembered it. Perhaps it was the house that was different. As before, the fresh snowfall had been meticulously shoveled away from the flagstone path leading up to the house, and the wind-whipped last vestiges of winter had been shaped into lonely gray mounds that decried the hope of an early |
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Charlie could hear the distant rumble of the angry North Atlantic as the wind drove it mercilessly against the jagged shoreline. Out of habit, he listened hopefully for the mourn- |
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