Last Ticket Out

Dear Patience

Dear Patience
If I pour my heart out, can you keep a promise? (mmhmm)
'Cause the situation
Is like a mountain that's been weighing on my conscience
If I'm being honest

Harry wraps the warm plaid around his body missing the summer warmth now that he is at his mum's house in Holmes Chapel.

Summer days here in the northern part of England are unpredictable, temperatures can easily drop from one moment to the next and the sun keeps hiding behind grey clouds for days.
He is no longer used to summer days in this part of England.
July and August were the months he usually spends in the southern parts of Europe, in countries along the Mediterranean Sea or at least in London from where he can quickly reach the English south west coast by train.

He hasn't been in Chesire during  summer months for years, at least not that he remembers.
Before Robin died two years ago, they used to go to France, Aquitaine or more often to the French Riviera where they always stayed in the same summer cottage near Saint Raphaël.

One year it was only Harry, his mum and Robin but mostly Gemma and Michael were able to come as well.
He absolutely loved when his uncle, aunt and cousins tagged along as well.

Harry still remembers the refreshing scent of pine-trees in the mornings when he went for a run, the sweet smell of oranges, strawberries and watermelons that filled the air in the afternoons when he strolled across greenmarkets with his mum and how nights in the south of France typically smelled of Provencal herbes and garlic and red wine.

Memories of these untroubled days are still so vivid and colourful, these days when his mum radiated joie de vivre and he never wanted the summer to end.

Anne is calmer now since Harry arrived around midnight two days ago, seems in some way more stable, at least it's how Harry can tell without permanently digging deeper.

He sighs and reaches for the mug filled with hot tea on the coffee table in front of him.
Taking one sip after another he looks back at the last days, forever grateful what Bobby and his friends have done for him, the English stranger.

Irish people are known to be helpful and hospitable but the way they treated  Harry was nevertheless incredible.

Maybe Niall had told his dad more that he wanted Harry to know, he can't be sure about that.

Why should Bobby help him to that extent ? 
Would he have done this for any random stranger ?

He can't help that his mind slips again to a certain blue eyed Irish lad.
They have been writing messages back and forth each day, also managed to talk over the phone on most days.
Some days the connection was so bad,  loud creaking and crackling made understanding almost impossible and
Harry should be annoyed that he only understood a couple of words.
He never was, too glad that he could hear his voice at least.

As he understood the amount of people using their phones and the internet at the same time was obviously still an issue that the Italian telephone companies and internet service providers have been trying to get rid off.
He reaches for the book lying on the sofa, it's Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose, a book that Robin recommended years ago but Harry never was in the right mood for reading the thriller about blood and thunder in a medieval monastery.

He's reading the third passage when he's interrupted by the buzzing of his phone on the coffee table.

Seeing Niall's name flash the screen of his phone he feels an nervous flattering  in his stomach, and he quickly bends  over to grab his phone.
Whenever he sees that Niall is calling his heart starts pounding heavily in his chest .