Death closes all: but something ere the end, some work of noble note, may yet be done, not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
Saffron closed the book that lay infront of her, turned over and sunk her head into her pillow. Maybe, somehow, the words would become part of her as well. As she lay there it became hot and stuffy. She slowly raised her head to gaze out of the window at the green wash of the garden. In the stillness she heard the gentle buzzing of a bee and the inviting call of the birds. Wondering what bird it was, she wandered over to her bookcase and took down a volume which her uncle had given her many years before. Slowly turning the pages, her eyes took in the colours and shapes of the aviators held within. Her feet led her back to the window, the colourful pages still in her hands. Her eyes travelling back and forth between the pictures and the brightness of outside whilst a gentle breeze blew across her warm temples. Lost in the view, she forget why she had taken the book in the first place, why it was so important at that moment.
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