This is the first story since my stroke last year. The artwork is not mine, it's stock I purchase to go with the story. I'm a writer, the story is the art. Thanks for stopping by. DAWN OVER ARCADIA Before the world fully awakened, dawn spilled over Arcadia’s rooftops like liquid gold. The sunlight, warm and honeyed, streamed along weathered brick walls, dancing across the dew-slick cobblestones below. Behind heavy curtains and shuttered windows, pale glows appeared one by one as lanterns and oil lamps were lit. Somewhere, a teakettle began its high, insistent whistle, sending thin spirals of steam into the cool morning air. Sleepy residents swung open doors and stepped onto their stoops, squinting to see if the morning milk had arrived. Along Cherrybrook Lane, a wooden cart rolled forward with a gentle rattle. The bottles nestled in their crates chimed softly as Mrs. Johnson guided her horse along the stone path. Above her, the street lamps—those iron sentinels—began to yield to the rising sun. One by one, their tiny flames guttered, then winked out. Their black crossarms, bent like tired arms stretching awake, cast long shadows across the lane. “Good night, everybody!” called the last lamp-post, voice low and kindly. “Good night!” came replies from the street. “See you at dusk!” cried another. “Until tonight!” someone else called. At length, only the old lamp at the corner remained alight. It lingered a moment longer, gazing down the length of Cherrybrook Lane and across the city stirring to life. All was peaceful. Its long vigil was done. Its flame fluttered once, then gently expired. Morning had touched every corner of Arcadia. Down the lane, the Post Office—a tall, narrow building of pale stone—stirred on its foundation. It creaked and tipped slightly, as if yawning in the dawn light, then straightened and peered at its neighbor. “Good morning, Apothecary!” it boomed in a cavernous tone. The Apothecary’s green shutters clicked open. Inside, shelves brimming with glass vials caught the light. “Good morning, Post Office,” came the smooth reply. The Post Office tilted closer. “What are you doing so early?” “I’m brewing a silence potion,” murmured the Apothecary, voice soft as velvet. “Oh my,” the Post Office exclaimed, righting itself. “That sounds serious. Who are you going to use it on?” “I’m going to use it on you,” the Apothecary finished coldly. The Post Office’s windows brightened in surprise. “You tease me.” “Yes, I tease you. Now shift aside—you’re blocking the lane. Mrs. Johnson’s milk awaits.” The Post Office blinked its tall windows downward. Mrs. Johnson’s cart stood directly before it. “Oh! Terribly sorry, Mrs. Johnson. Excuse me!” With a lurch and a swivel, the Post Office edged sideways, apologizing to everyone in sight. The cart’s wheels clicked over the stones, and soon it clattered onward. The Post Office paused mid-shift as an irresistible aroma drifted past its doorstep: warm cinnamon, plump raisins, and yeasty bread rising in the Bakery next door. It leaned toward the source, windows aglow. “Oh, Bakery! You smell divine this morning.” “Flatterer,” the Bakery snapped, her brickwork cheeks warming. “Stand straight. You’re in my customer’s way.” “Sorry! Sorry!” The Post Office shuffled back hastily. Across the street, Rowan House basked on its manicured lawn like a dozing cat. One shutter opened with a gentle creak. “Good morning, Post Office,” called Rowan House in a velvety drawl. At once, the Post Office leaned toward the broad windows. “Are your boys up yet? School’s about to start.” “They’re already on their way to breakfast,” Rowan House answered, shutter half-closed in measured amusement. “Ah, good, good,” the Post Office said, lingering for just a breath. Then Rowan House asked: “Where’s Express?” The Post Office froze mid-lean, a cold dread running through its stone walls. “Oh…my goodness.” It jerked upright. “Express!” it cried, panic echoing through its tower. “I almost—Oh, how could I?” It scuttled back across the lane, nearly colliding with Mrs. Johnson again. “Post Office!” she called, horse stamping. “Sorry! Terribly sorry!” The Post Office at last settled squarely on its foundation with a heavy clunk. For a moment, Cherrybrook Lane lay hushed beneath the pale morning sky. Then, from the topmost window of the Post Office tower, the Post Office’s gentle voice drifted out: “Express, darling, it’s time to get up.” Silence answered for a long beat. Then a muffled grumble came from beneath a mountain of quilts: “Five more minutes.”