The day after the funeral I knew I would have to leave the village. Its crooked streets, that I had once thought were appealing, now seemed sinister as if dark secrets festered around each bend in the road. George, of course, doesn’t understand. But then, he couldn’t be expected to. He has no idea of the part I played in Harry’s death. “What do you mean? I thought you liked it here?” With an irritated shake of his newspaper, he had stared at me over the top of his glasses. I had lowered my head in a mute and miserable silence. I couldn’t meet his eyes and I couldn’t explain. Things had changed. Every day, the odor grew stronger and now its sickly scent fills the whole house. A few days ago I had stood, my nostrils flaring, trying to identify its source.

“Are you getting a cold?” George had said.
“Can’t you smell it?”
“Smell what?” He had looked at me, his eyebrows raised.

I clamped my lips together, fighting the urge to scream. Our daughter’s baby is due soon and she wants to stay with us while her husband is away on business. George was shocked when I refused. But, I am adamant. I cannot allow my daughter into the house when its very air is tainted. That is why I am determined we must leave before the baby is born. Abruptly, I turn away staring out of the window at the maze of streets that seem to have a single purpose. They all lead to the church on the hill: the place where I had first met Harry.