The house wasn’t the same to her any more. The first thing the new owners did was root up the yew hedge. In its place reared a stark, brutal fence so that Amy could no longer see the roses growing up the path. But she’d been able to see enough, peering through the gaps in the slats, to make out that they’d flattened the rockery to put in a basket ball area. Amy’s father had constructed that rockery, and lovingly tended the little succulents. She used to wheel her bike past it every weekday, returning from school, before entering the cool gloom of her father’s study. Those comfortable week nights relaxing on their cracked leather sofa, watching Danger Mouse and eating slices of her father’s macaroni cheese.
So, she avoided cycling past Primrose Cottage these days, but couldn’t seem to avoid it in her dreams. Nearly every night she found…
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