He was old, but in a way that made it clear that he knew that growing old was a privilege.

He smelled like the rain. Like clouds and thunder, and he felt like sunshine when he touched my skin.

She could appreciate the thousand stories and million memories from a room full of detritus, keepsakes of a life lived without concern for colouring in the lines. A life of an artist. Not always happy, but lived in such a way that your whole world is a story worth telling.