Morning Stories

How empty does something have to be before it becomes good? Or at least seems good? What could possibly be so wonderful about an object full of nothing but warm air and a hint of optimism?

Oops — November is here. The most unloved month of the year, dressed in fifty shades of grey and minor chords. Even its name — No Vember — sounds like a refusal of joy, a month that says no to sunshine, no to cheer, no to colour.

For four quiet years, the house next door was perfectly peaceful. The elderly couple who lived there were hardly noticeable — except for the occasional chat over the garden fence. No loud parties, no drama, just classical calm. It was bliss.