Fall The stark decay of the barn stood bright against the glowering September sky, its splintered panels bleached and broken by years of alternating sunlight and frost. Ragged strips of pink paint— remnants of the barn’s last good coat, twenty years back— bubbled off the wood in pale, crisp blisters. The planks were emaciated, silvered, split down their lengths by wide, deep cracks. During the winter months these cracks became bejewelled with hibernating ladybirds that embedded themselves into the grain, a find that could only have been made by the probings of a restless and lonely child. Now that small mystery had been reclaimed, lost like so much else, to a value beyond reckoning. Above the barn entrance, stale mud clods of swallow nests clung to the eaves, the ground beneath them spattered with droppings that resembled wet ash. The barn doors were bolted shut by a spongey wooden beam that was slowly crumbling into a trail of sawdu...