The walls are whitewashed, the roof tiles the gentlest shade of terracotta. Inside are light-filled rooms and windows that admit cooling breezes. Outside, the road winds between wildflower-strewn fields, to an iridescent ocean and gleaming beach. Follow the road back and there’s the village, beside a chuckling stream. Friendly neighbours nod as I walk to the bakery for fresh breakfast croissants.
“Ted. You’ll be late!” I place the model carefully back on the shelf and join sombre-faced commuters packed in the dim elevator, then out to the snarling traffic and choking air of the street.
One day …
We can always dream.
This story is my contribution to Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. You can read all the other stories here.