We left before dawn. Still warm in Dénia. Marta packed sandwiches again. The taxi was early, lights bouncing off the orange trees at the end of the road. Alicante airport was full of half-awake families like us, everyone peeling stickers off their luggage.
The flight was quiet. Kids fought over a window seat, then fell asleep. Marta leaned against me for a bit. I watched the coast fade until it was just cloud and sea.
By the time we crossed the Channel the colour had gone. Grey light, rain starting to hit the windows. I knew we were home before the wheels touched down.
Exeter smelled of wet carpet and bacon rolls. The car took a few tries to start. Roads were empty all the way back. Devon hedges dripping, sheep pressed under trees, nothing moving.
Ashburton felt smaller. High Street half empty, curtains still drawn even though it was noon. The same charity shop window, same post office queue. I parked by the Co-op and we walked up the hill in drizzle. Marta said it smelled green. I said it smelled like it hadn’t stopped raining since August.
The house was cold. Dust and damp from being shut too long. Kids ran straight upstairs shouting about their toys. Marta opened windows, then closed them again because of the rain. I put the kettle on and waited for the heating to wake up.
By evening we were sitting on the sofa watching nothing much. Radiator ticking, dog barking somewhere down the lane. Marta said she missed her mum’s kitchen. I said I missed the sun hitting the tiles outside the Denia house. She said it’ll still be there.
Before bed I checked flights again. March, maybe April. She didn’t say yes or no. Just smiled a bit.
It rained all night. You could smell the earth through the window. I didn’t mind it. Just different air.