Tell me a story, Silver.

This is not a love story, but love is in it. That is, love is just outside it, looking for a way to break in.

We lived for the night. The torch in your window was my signal. When it was lit, I stayed away. When you extinguised it, I came to you - secret doors, dark corridors, forbidden stairs, brushing aside fear and propriety like cobwebs. I was inside you. You contained me. Together in bed, we could sleep, we could dream, and if we heard your servant's mournful cry, we called it a bird or a dog. I never wanted to wake. I had no use for the day. The light was a lie. Only here, the sun killed, and time's hands bound, were we free. Imprisoned in each other, we were free.

uit: "Lighthousekeeping", Jeanette Winterson.