You called me the other day. It was Sunday morning, and I was sitting in the kitchen in the warm rays of sunlight, leafing through the newspaper and drinking coffee. I wasn’t expecting the phone to ring – I wasn’t expecting to hear from you for, oh, at least another week.

But I answered and it was you.

‘Skye!’ I exclaimed. ‘How are you? Where are you? What are you up to?’

‘Shh,’ you said. ‘I wrote a new song.’

I heard you start strumming your guitar, and I could picture you so, so clearly – cropped blonde hair, bony elbows, loose dress. You sang along to your chords, and when you were finished, you taught me the words so you could play and I could sing.

‘Bye, Henry,’ you said. ‘Love you.’

Yeah, you didn’t answer my questions, but I just smiled, safe in the knowledge that as soon as the leaves turn yellow and orange and begin to fall, you’ll come home.