Twelve

A blinding shaft of morning light

A shout from Gabriel's horn

Fate peeks behind the darkened cloud

Amour's conspirator

Andrea knew her life had changed even before the mailman came on Wednesday morning. She awakened before the alarm, as she had the two previous mornings, with the unshakable conviction that the darkness of the past was over for good. If there were yet to be times of gloom for Andrea, they would be passing shadows. Life was good; she sensed it in the smallest details of her life.

Grabbing the robe from over the footboard, Andrea wrapped it around her and eased her feet in the fur-lined house slippers waiting by the bed. The sun was barely up when Andrea walked down the stairs and into the kitchen to start the day. She opened a bag of hazelnut coffee beans, poured a measure full in the mill and pressed the lever. With a whir, the blades released the aroma of freshly ground coffee into the air. Andrea started the pot brewing, then stepped to the pantry and opened the sack on the floor. With the plastic container she kept in the bag, she scooped out a generous portion of dry dog food. Buddy had not yet begun his morning vigil at the kitchen door when Andrea took his food outside.

"Here, Buddy," she called, closing the door behind her. The big dog peeked out of his house and came running through the yellow birch leaves beginning to collect on the lawn. Andrea filled Buddy's bowl on the flagstone terrace, gave him fresh water, then looked into the eastern sky.