Hannah wanders back along the corridor, drawn by the sounds of laughter that increases in volume with every approach. Her mind continues to wind back over the past month. Ascending first up a half flight of stairs she then steps down into the long, narrow canteen at the front of the main building. A group of Icelanders down the far end – postgrad students she guesses – are playing guitar and singing, interspersed with jokes and laughter. Crossing the floor of the canteen she finds herself beyond the tables at the reflection of a month ago, in the mirrors that are now mirrored by the darkness outside; her friends sat at the tables with the hesitant and general conversation of a group of people she has only just met. She recalls the singing of cartoon theme tunes from a shared yesterday, and smiles fondly at the thought.
I write the crossover scenes of midnight research in the garden, sheltered by from the blazing sun by an umbrella, I sit at my table, picking strawberries and eating them from where they grow just alongside. The birds crow, and sing; the flowers lay themselves open to the light, and the heat intensifies.