Our town sits at the centre of the compass, or so they say. The slender axis on which the needle turns, the place where all directions meet and the blowing winds show their true nature.

Elsewhere, the winds must mingle, so that sweet and smoke and rot seem to mean nothing but marsh and spring and weather. But in our town, where all things meet but do not mingle, the south wind blows from the past, a balm of honey and all the things dear to your heart that are now gone. To breathe it is to mourn in the sweetest way; when the south wind leaves us, it must smell more of salt, scented with our tears.

The north wind smells of the future, of smoke rising from more than wood-fire and ashes mingled with snow. We hold our breath when it blows through the town, but that will not stop it from coming.

The east wind smells of what never was, while the west wind smells of what will never be. Every person describes their scents differently, and they are best not breathed for too long. A person who tries to live on dreams and longing alone is sure to suffocate.

I pray for still days, when the world simply is what it is. And when the north wind blows, I hope it is strong enough to be carrying its scents to us from far away, and that it will be a long time yet before the fire arrives.