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"Absence makes the heart grow fonder... or forgetful."
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LONDON, ENGLAND

  In her eyes, the view of the world remained ever congested and dark.

  Clouds rumbled overhead with a raucous crack of thunder. Rivulets of water pelted the windows she traced her thumb against, a small, fingerprinted heart left within the fogged glass.

  Hazel-green eyes reflected back at her subtly outlined in a soft brown liner. Once she'd been told they were vast as they were beautiful, the varying emotions changing the hue often. However, the sentiment stirred unwanted memories which she was quick to shove down. Tampering the well of emotions that threatened to surface.

  With a subtle tilt of her head, long waves like spun gold cascaded down narrowed shoulders. The pale skin luminous through glass, dusted with freckles across a button nose.

  As repeatedly echoed by another matronly figure, the mirrored reflection of her mother. Yet another memory that refracted off many.

  Well, least I made it.

  Indeed, the grueling trip to the United Kingdom had taken its mental toll. Nearly a day had passed since she'd last seen the verdant undulations of the countryside. She'd miss the intermittent seasons. Those humid summer months drifting down winding rivers or stargazing in the fields. While crickets littered the thickets baring their songs. Or when the first apple nurtured in the orchards, was ripe for the picking. The crisp taste would settle as the burnished leaves changed dressings. Bidding farewell to the indian summer with a hot cup of cider and a wool blanket on the porch swing, while the colder days rolled in.

  The winters would crystallize the last of the foliage. After a full day of snowtubing to shoveling, a steaming mug of cocoa would warm her hands. The festive lights strung up passerby's would admire closer to the holidays, the smell of angel food permeating the homestead and ornaments shimmering in the pine they'd cut down from the woodlands surrounding the land.

  Now, all of it was left behind in America, in the heartland dairy state of Wisconsin.

  Home.

  It felt as if those pieces of herself had been left scattered across the country home's grounds, birthing a chasm between herself and familiarity with every mile traveled. Friends. Memories. A childhood. Her thumb and forefinger closed around her upper arm in a pinch. Only to remind herself this was anything but a dream.

  From funeral arrangements, endless paperwork, and obtaining a long-time visa to live overseas. The last of her lifesavings were wrung dry from the expenses, alone. The day before her family's home faced foreclosure—due to the mortgage—she received her visa.

  Less than two days later, her redline flight was booked. From Minneapolis to London, the plane would later make its descent into Heathrow Airport.

  Now her eyes shifted to the outside. A neighboring brownstone of homes aligned a single, narrow road. The manicured lawns grew, brass numbers impressed on the houses.

  20...19...18...17...

  "We're about just on the outskirts of Surrey, Ms. White, most countryside you'll see outside London." The strong, English lilt he harbored commanded the same attention when she'd left the airports baggage claim.

  "Oh... thanks," she replied with a small grimace. It was obvious he wasn't one for small talk or considered her educated enough on the different counties. Ever since her departure from the American Airlines terminal, she remained weary and had distanced herself from the chauffeur. An elder man with a pinched face and deep-set lines under the groves of his beady eyes, he was uniformally dressed in a black trench, a leather busboy hat over peppered hair.

Only when the vehicle crested over a small hill, did the private screening abruptly roll down between them. "We're approaching now, Ms. White."

  She gave a slight nod if just to acknowledge him as a courtesy. Yet the silence resumed once more as her gaze affixed to the road beneath them. The sudden dips of cobblestone—she realized—could be felt as ornate, wrought streetlamps picketed the way ahead. Scattered puddles reflected off the winking lights, painting the scenery before her like an old Edwardian picture. A long, distanced past reflected with the towering Big Ben's silhouette in the far distance. Removed from the bustling, technological parts of the London they'd left. The open countryside unfolded into view with rich English oaks, opulent residences of brick and wrought iron gates standing sentential.

It was clear, they had arrived in the affluent part of the county.

Immediately she felt like an outsider; a sour knot twisting in her stomach. The crimson leather jacket beneath her fingers crinkled as she pressed it up against her chest, inhaling the familiar woodsy aroma as the car came to a smooth, practiced stop in front of imposing onyx gates.

  So this is how a foreigner in a new country feels...

She felt her eyes widen as they rounded a circular driveway, revealing a sprawling manor set amidst a lush manicured garden of white roses.

  Without warning the door to her side swung open with a stiff, "Welcome to the Darling Residence, Ms. White."

  As if she were weightless, a leather-clad hand swiftly reached in and pulled her to her feet. Instantly pelted with rain, she was left soaked to the bone.

  With a quivering hand she scraped the plastered strands obscuring her vision. Just as a suitcase was dropped onto the toe of her Doc Martens.

  Alex bit her lip, her retort on the tip of her tongue. Without a word the chauffeur scuttled like a crab back into the slick vehicle. A plume of exhaust enveloped her as he sped off, nearly side swiping a workers van parked adjacent.

No point putting on a jacket now.

  Already did she miss the Midwest hospitality. As a result of her journey thus far, she wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

Her foot throbbed, the icy deluge sending a shiver racketing down her spine as she looked up.

  Twisted veins of ivy clung to an opulent three-story Georgian manor before her like entwined spidery limbs. Lead windows obscured by pared hedgerows dimly lit the inside, flanked by stone pillars that framed the entryway with lit lanterns.

  Whoa, was this it?

  Despite the torrential downpour she stood momentarily stunned, her eyes following the grandness to a peculiar stained-glass window seemingly overlooking the lands from a high vantage point. The antiquity spoke of a preserved, glimpse of time, akin to the antiques left in a familiar farmhouse kitchen. At this, the knot within her gut twisted painfully.

  No, stop.

  With this she buried the memories further down. The rain needling her backside, drove her to quicken her pace along the narrowed cobblestone pathway to the home, rolling the wheels of her suitcase behind her. Once sheltered under the steeply pitched roof, she took a breath and rapped one knuckle against the imposing wooden doors adorned with a brass knocker.

   After the blusterous sweep of wind through the soaked threads of her sweater, she contemplated just opening the door. The temperature had plummeted, leaving her teeth chattering.

  I'm not going to end up with hypothermia.

  Tentatively she grasped ahold of the brass knob as if it would break beneath her fingers. Slowly twisting the handle, the door opened with a soft click.