Cathy Davies

Trinity

George avoided his father’s workshop for as long as possible. Upon entering it was even more miserable than he’d expected. Something must have died amongst the wildlife and detritus, and he could smell it thickly in his nostrils. In good weather the conservatory walls brought it light, but now the grey sky closed oppressively above him, and the grass lay soggy and wilting outside, seemingly less green than usual. The rain hammering migraine-inducingly against the glass walls, dripping off the sloping roof like waterfalls.