She missed her father. The way he used to brush her curly hair, or push her on the swing in the local park. Even the way he’d make up nicknames she hated like ‘sweetie pie’ and ‘crown jewels’. Things may have been different if only he’d been there when… She shuddered at the memories, preferring to keep the darkness of the past where it belonged.
She pulled a vase out of the cupboard, filled it with water, and put in the roses. She centred the vase on her antique oak table. The flowers made the house feel like a home. She stared up at her abstract paintings and took in the textures, bright brush strokes, and the light and shade that represented a concept or idea. The hues of pinks echoed the roses in the vase on the table. Hanging nearby were portraits of Mahatma Ghandi posing with his han
