The Bus Stop
The bus leaves you at the top of a lane and departs with what can only be described as relief. Fog lies over Wrenfell like a cat over a warm radiator: completely, and with no intention of moving.
Below you, slate roofs and chimney smoke. A harbor. A lighthouse on the headland, dark at this hour. Somewhere down there is Foxglove Cottage, and somewhere near it, presumably, a cat that is now legally your problem.
A sign at the bus stop lists departures: MON, TUE, WED, FRI, SAT, SUN. You read it twice. You decide it is a misprint.