The ebb of the year, a night lit by lamplight on the glistening cobbled streets of Rye. Beams sag under ancient weight. Creaks and groans that echo through from centuries past. Vapors rise from the glass; sweet smoke. Wind whips at us navigating the churchyard, the stairs, the leaning buildings. Embers, swift as fireflies, fleet the air. Huddled in long coats, our scarves draped around our necks like limp rope, it’s not so bad. The dark and whistling streets feel like home.