He leaned against the stile, sheltered from the north by the thick wind-break of the gorse, and turned to face the sea. He saw the long line of the horizon, the bay sweeping out to the point where the lighthouse still blinked. Beyond it, to the south-east, the sky was stained with pink, the coming light diffused by mist. It was as good a viewpoint as any. He looked at his watch and saw that it was eight-forty. He sat on the wooden step of the stile and waited.

The dog sat at his knee. Sam pulled off his glove and laid his hand on the dog’s head and touched the soft, silky fur, the velvety ears. The world, the empty universe belonged, at that moment, to just the two of them. From this small elevation, it seemed limitless, new-minted, pristine, as though only yesterday had been the day of the Creation.

I hope you don’t mind that I posted again from Winter Solstice, by Rosamunde Pilcher. Just so perfect for a cold, rainy day.