After a long day, Vera is relieved to be arriving home. She saunters towards her home, the cottage at the end of the lane, in the late afternoon sunlight. She has always enjoyed an afternoon walk to refresh and clear the mind, to breathe fresh air and smell the roses. As she ambles along, she notices shapes moving about in the windows of the houses she passes.

Some windows overlook the street, the occupants in their kitchens or their laundry rooms, busy with their chores. Some are shuttered closed or hidden behind blinds. But always there are some eyes peering about the street, checking what others are doing, craning their necks for secrets and sauciness. Mrs Jones, with a persistently craned neck, Vera suspects may have a pair of binoculars glued to her hands for convenient spying at all times. 

Her eyes fall onto Vera, she stares blankly without a smile or a greeting. Vera waves with a small smile. Mrs Jones simply looks away. 

Her metal gate clicks open, she shuts it behind her. Turning to walk up the garden path to her front door, she notices who is waiting there.

Leaning against the door frame, cowboy hat tilted sideways, stands an imposing figure. He is dressed in black jeans and a black shirt. His green eyes watch her intently. Vera freezes. She considers turning back and leaving; going somewhere else, far away from this complication. He stands quietly, waiting. Vera resigns with a deep breath and approaches her front door, digging in her purse for her keys. She climbs the two steps to the front door, ignoring him.

'Hello, Miss Vera.' He says quietly.

'Davy,' she retorts.

'It's Davorin, actually.'

'Breaker-in, yes. Can I help you?' Vera fiddles with the key.

'I hope you're pleased to note that I waited this time, as requested.'

Vera smirks, inserting the key into it's slot. 'Kind of you.'

'I also hope you've noticed that a week has passed by.'

'Was that enough time to come to your senses?'

'Meaning?'

She glances up at him from the lock. His green eyes watch her, a smirk curling his lips. 'Enough time for you to realise that accusing some random young lady you don't even know was misguided.'

'Not quite,' he says, lifting himself from his leaning position. He steps towards the door. Vera's skin prickles as he nears her. But he approaches her unhurriedly and leans softly against the door, his torso touching her hand. He gazes at her with an arched eyebrow.

'I hope you find whatever it is you seem to have misplaced.' Vera's voice falters slightly as she glances at her hand fiddling with the keys, trying to turn them in the lock without trembling. 'I wish you a lovely day further.'

Davorin chuckles. 'Vera,' he murmurs softly. He takes a step, moving behind her. She turns, before realizing how close he is. Davorin steps closer, placing one hand beside her shoulder, bringing his face just centimeters from hers. Vera inhales sharply, feeling the heat of his body around her.

His breath is warm on the tip of her nose. Davorin smirks cheekily. 'Let us not continue to play this silly game. I need that stone back. I will give you three more days, but after that I think you understand that I will have no choice but to retrieve it myself. And may have to take along a little something as compensation. I do have a fondness for old books.'

Vera swallows. Sweat prickles on her skin. She realizes she is trapped between him and the door. He smirks at her, green eyes flashing through long eyelashes. One hand just beside her, the other in his jean pocket. He's relaxed, leaning on one foot, seeming to enjoy this taunting. A waft of his aroma introduces itself to her and she shivers.

'I really... don't know what you mean.' His electric green eyes are watching her intently. Brilliant and piercing. Broad shoulders, towering and imposing. A glitter in his eyes. 'Okay, bye.' Vera spins around, turning the key in the lock and vanishing inside the cottage, shutting and locking the door quickly behind her. Leaning against the back of the door, she prepares for him to try to force it open. But he doesn't.  

A voice murmurs through the door. 'You have three days. I will not be waiting outside next time, nor will I be knocking on your door.'

Vera hears boots knock against the wooden entryway, clunk down the two stairs, and depart down her pathway. The little metal gate closes. Vera releases a breath.

She hurries into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of red wine. She gulps down a few sips, and refills her glass, leaning against the counter and taking a deep breath. It takes her a few moments to compose herself and bring her adrenaline levels down. Evening is falling, coating her small home is dimness. She flicks on the kitchen light, the sitting room light, and the lamp for good measure.

Having calmed down, she returns to the kitchen, and sets a pot of tomato and onion on to the stove to cook, getting the spaghetti ready to boil for when the sauce has 10 minute left to go. While that's heating up, she waters the little plants on the windowsill. They are green and stiff with health. She lightly plucks a few leaves of basil, ready for the sauce. She pours herself a glass of red wine and ambles towards her bookshelf. One hand occupied with the wine glass, the other takes a small feather duster and she lightly dusts the shelves.

The books are varied: some are so old that the writing on the cover has faded beyond recognition. Some are bright with newness, jumping out with fresh colours and striking designs. Some are thick, some are thin, some are small, some are broad; but together they create a beautiful bookshelf of diversity. She smiles to herself as she dusts. It's a pleasure to collect and love them, and to await those that are still to come into her life.

Vera plops the spaghetti into boiling water and sets her 10 minute timer. She stirs the thickening sauce, smelling the aroma, adding the fresh basil and some origanum. She smiles: simple food, so fresh and tasty, a simple pleasure in life. When it's ready she dishes up a steaming plate, leaving enough for leftovers the next day, and sits at the counter to eat. If her sister were here, they would have eaten together, jokes floating between them in the air, light as feathers.

With a full belly and another glass of wine in hand, Vera takes a book from the bottom shelf of her bookcase. Its large in size, with a worn maroon cover. She walks back to the couch, drapes a blanket around her shoulders, and settles the book into her lap. Opening the cover, she looks upon the first photos in the album. Two little girls beam out of the photo at the taker. They are in a pool of bubbles, laughing, light in their eyes. One in green, one in pink, hair matted to their faces as they play.

The next pages show the same two girls, older now. Brown hair, both of them, and slightly different shades of brown eyes. Both in school uniforms, with little bags at their feet. One is green, one is pink. They smile obediently at the camera, hair in neat braids, arms draped over each others' shoulders.

Over the page the girls are on vacation, seated on a bench, overlooking a river. One of them in pigtails, the other one in braids. One holding an ice cream, the other holding a bird book. They're getting older now.

Over the page the age begins to show in the caliber of the smiles, a bit more self-aware now, a bit more insecure. Hands in pockets, smiles more demure. Still in school uniforms, but noticeably neater now, fewer stray hairs escaping ponytails, fewer stains of breakfast on the corners of mouths or front of shirts.

Vera smiles. She tries to allow the feeling of sisterhood to totally envelop her. The protective, unconditional love of a sibling, the love of a constant best friend. The feeling of overcoming a squabble or solving a problem together. The simplicity of falling asleep in the same room every night, of sitting to breakfast together every morning. The irritations, the jokes, the silent comfort. She closes her eyes. The warmth comes from deep within her chest, it spreads down her arms, up her neck. She calls her sister's name in her mind, albeit hesitantly.

She knows she is in the right state of mind, but she is reluctant to open her eyes and see what awaits her. Slowly, she lifts and eyelid. One, then two. A figure is in the room, a flicker of the light, a mild blurring at the edges of vision. Her heart flips, sinks and sparks. But when she straightens and peers more closely, she sees once again that it is not her sister, but her father.