Notes of Jasmine

By the centre of the far wall in the musty attic, lit only by the end of the magenta twilight and a lone candle, sat a figure. Wisps of steam from a freshly brewed tea could be seen creating an elaborate pattern of swirls, as they rose above the head of silver curls visible atop the ornate chairs back. Fragrant notes of jasmine and citrus wafted out the cracked door, and down the spiral stairs. The decaying wooden chair groaned sadly as the occupant shifted her weight.
Sudden movement through the condensation coating the solitary window drew attention to the appearance of a queer muddle of blues and browns. The true shape masked by the bluebells planted in the garden behind, though it looked as much like a man as a blur could. A quick, surprised intake of breath - a gasp of recognition, echoed in the empty space. Could it possibly be?
There came the hollow sound of a heavy leather-bound book dropping to the timber floor as delicate, parchment hands rose to the glass, rubbing the water drops and years of accumulated grime obscuring the owner’s vision away from the surface in a frantic fashion. Alas, the woman’s haste was not enough. By the time a spot in the window was wiped clear, the blur had moved on, leaving her drowning in a deep, unexpected, sea of loss.