All through the summer it tapped at the windows and doors, and very slowly, so no one noticed, it laced its way around the house turning everything to milky grey. Soon all the days looked the same and when she discovered the clocks had stopped, time had grown so brittle nothing could be done...
The story I'm working on at the moment is one of loss, lace and love.
I want to look at the nature of fortune telling, and old superstitions, weaving a ghost story in fragments, like torn lace...
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