It was on a particular stormy day; inside a typical suburban looking home that our story takes place. A young woman, only recently of twenty two years, sits in her bay window, looking out wistfully out upon the darkening sky. She waits patiently for a sign. Anything to let her know that out there somewhere is what she hopes for most.

But her hope is becoming buried underneath despair, like the suns rays are smothered by the huge greasy black storm clouds. Slow drizzle makes her windows take on the appearance of snake skin and the steaming road act like an impenetrable barrier that will forever hinder her attempts to find reason and desire in her existence.

She slowly stretched out her ivory coloured legs and arms as she shifted her pensive position for a more comfortable one. She laid her right cheek against the icy coldness of the window pane as few platinum blonde strands fell from her messy pile of hair on her head like leaves in an autumn day.

It was upon this very day, as her melancholy forest green eyes searched the greying, aging sky, that an untimely knock upon her door broke her out of her reflective state. The knock sounded again which forced her into action. She leapt off the worn, purple, Persian pillowed that lined the base of her window seat. She slightly stumbled upon on misplaced shoe and fell upon the door handle.

Breathlessly, she flung the door wide open, greeting the portly lady with a large bang as the door hit a wall. She cringed and turned to face – the now impatient – lady of whom she was well acquainted.

“A visitor for you” The lady said with an emotionless face.

She immediately started to head down the hall way. A bolt of lighting sung out across sky, lighting up her small room as the smile lit up her gaunt face. Immediately she ran to the small mirror near her bed.

A crack of thunder lit up the outside road and surrounding forest, but the young woman was too busy making sure she looked suitable – that her powdered face was perfect or food between her teeth – to meet with her visitor to be bothered with the storm outside the house.

She amiably bounced down the stairway – two or three at a time – and landed with a bang on the landing. She happily ambled down the wooden hall, holding the skirts of her dress to avoid falling, that she knew as well as the back of her hand – there wasn’t much to know of the beech wood floors and the white washed wall – and peered into every open door way, attempting to find the one that contained her visitor.

She frowned in confusion as she reached the front door finding no trace of a visitor. She thought to herself that maybe there was no visitor and the house maid imagined one. Upon reflection of this thought she banished it as a stupid idea. She wandered slowly into the kitchen to confront the maid and find this “visitor” – human curiosity had gotten the better of her.

Upon entering the kitchen – a quaint affair with simple implements, a range of shinning colours, wooden benches and simple open fire – she found the house maid she was looking for. As she took a few steps into the smoke filled, hazy room she managed to make out a figure with her watery eyes, standing close to the fire place.

In confusion, the girl glanced at one of the culinary maids who simply burst into a hopeless fit of giggles and returned to her pastry duties. Cautiously she approached her mysterious visitor and warily executed a – hesitant – tap upon one of his broad, muscular shoulder.

The man – whom she now knew was as little as two years her elder – turned to face her so elegantly and smoothly that she was sure she turned green with envy due to her divisive inability to do so. The two stood, looking at each other, for quite some time before the girl imagined how awkward it must be for the man, as it was awkward for her.

“Shall we retire to a more suitable place to talk?”

The man nodded in agreement and followed the pretty brunette down the hallway until the girl spied a suitable room away from the business of the manor house’s kitchen.

“May I enquire as to the purpose of your visit, Sir? Forgive me, I do not believe we have met” the girl said with a great deal of nervousness for this man was indeed handsome.

“I fear that you know me quite well, mademoiselle, yet the memory clearly has left you, as t’was some time ago. Perhaps you will permit me to refresh your memory?”

The girl inwardly scowled herself as a furious, red blush encroached upon her face. She had hardly been in the presence of men before – entirely too scandalous to be alone with men as handsome as he – and his words were laced with hidden meaning that made the girl feel bemused.

With a nod of her flushed face, the unknown man smiled and opened his mouth to speak. Just before he began she gently shuffled herself so that more of her bodice was visible and her hips less so – as she hated those with a burning passion.

“When you still lived in London when you were only nineteen and living with your aunt. You remember a small child, a boy, who lived across the street whom everyone called Frankie?”

The girl’s flawless forehead became creased in confusion as she strained to remember. Most of her memories of London are that of her Aunt’s house and the finishing school she had attended. Without much warning, from the dark crevasse of her subconscious – an image of a small scruffy looking boy, not half her age or height sprung into her minds eye. Recognition sprung onto her face, letting the man continue on with his tale.

“Well, do you remember his elder brother, George, by any chance?”

I withdraw to the inner parts of my mind and attempted to remember Frankie’s elder brother, I was still baring remembering Frankie himself, let alone an elder brother.

“For… forgive me but the memory has slipped me…” tumbled out of my mouth as I was still trying to remember the face.

Slowly scenes began to appear in the minds eye of the girl. She saw herself with a boy – she was assuming it was George – and they were sitting by a lake. She was watching the ducks on the water and lazily throwing bread to them occasionally. The boy however never removed his eyes from her. Gently, timidly, he reached up and caressed her cheek lovingly.

A violent blush erupted on the girls face as she turned to look at him – both in reality and fragment of her memory.

“Yes… I remember him…” the girl trailed off into a happy smile and glazed eyes.

“I come with word of him, from the America’s” the mysterious man smiled at her.

“He says to tell you that he looks to the moon’s comfort every night”

In the girls mind the scene shifted from the sunny, breezy lake to a midnight rendezvous in a grassy meadow. The same man and woman lay close together on a small blanket gazing at the moon with a melancholy façade. The boy whispered in the girl’s ear to look to the moon every night and they will be with each other again, together forever in spirit.

“As do I” the girl mumbled to the stranger as tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She looked up at the man and into his stunning crystal eyes.

“What news of him? Does he fair well?” her eyes grew wide with angst.

“First I will relay his message then you shall know of his state. Next he wanted me to tell you that he has millions of daisy chains for you as he kept practising” the man smiled a secretive yet amused smile at the girl opposite him as she remember another, different scene.

The boy and girl were in a small child’s park near their houses surrounded by daisies. As the boy gazed at the girl lovingly as her hands furiously twisted and warped small daisy flowers until, triumphantly, she held up an immaculate daisy bracelet. She proceded to then slip it onto the males wrist and teach him the art of daisy chains – which he promised to practice til perfection and think of her always, especially when completing this task.

The girl sat, uncaring that she didn’t know the man opposite her, crying profusely.

“And lastly, he wanted me to tell you that his heart brought him back to you.”

The girl studied the man’s grinning, exuberant face until understanding grew on her.

“George…?” She asked, not daring the inevitable hope flame to relight in her chest.

He slowly nodded at her puzzled expression.

“But… why George? What of your fortune to be made in America?” the girl asked, crying tears of joy.

“I was miserable in America” George answered with a shrug

“But what is here that could help your misery that isn’t in America?” the girl asked puzzled.

“You.” He answered.