The street is only a small one. The houses are small, red brick with neat hedges and lawns. Most of them have picket fences in a variation of colours. If you listen, you can distinctly make out the sound of children in a school playground near by. Her heart tenses and aches. She wonders if this is considered madness.

Number fourteen is as pretty as all the other houses on the street. It is surrounded by a wooden fence that looks as though it gets repainted once a month. It all looks too perfect and the thought makes her slightly nauseas. A football rests against the only tree in the garden. The door is white.

A curtain twitches in one of the bedroom windows and she knows she is being watched. The sun is bright and she feels warm. But she knows a lot of that warmth is not down to the August weather. The years have been kind to her.

She has wasted time loosing her train of thought. The door opens and she turns and leaves before she is forced to come face to face with her past. She is not ready for that yet.