My memories always seem to start with hills. The hills of home changed, and it was a fair enough replacement. I didn’t even know they had hills in England ‘till Ma moved us there. She kept the house, and it became my home. Before long, I kept the garden. It was always my home. There was no other way for a boy to occupy his time, while still keeping out of trouble. I craved little more than my freedom, my air, and my land, and I could borrow them all amongst the roses. Along with the girl in the window.
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