The music played as I closed my eyes, hoping it wouldn’t bring visions of you. It did, but you weren’t there, translucent in a memory you never took part in. Madrid’s November sunset was like fool’s gold; the fairytale castle monument beside the water, deckchairs folded and stacked against railings. Gravel crunched beneath my feet and chilly air bit at my cheeks. Impossibly handsome schoolboys collected for a streetside choir as I saw your ghost walking towards me from a place between the trees where Winter was honest; where grass, trees and people were all framed in pure white mist.

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