Gradually, some semblance of normality infiltrated our lives and the dust from the war began to settle.
My mother decided to open a bakery, just off the centre of the village. She had always been fond of baking, so it seemed appropriate. Oftentimes, it was hard to place the exact scent in the store; it would change from day to day depending on her mood, or what the customers wanted. Sometimes, there would be cheese, criss-crossed upon golden buns, other times there would be raisins, baked into plaits. Always, though, there would be an underlying scent of lemons and strawberries from her cakes and tarts.
It was our second favourite place to be, the first –of course– being the treehouse.
The treehouse was our safe haven. It was a place we could go when we needed a break from everything, when we wanted to complain about the various aspects of our retrospectively simple lives, or contemplate hypotheticals and alternate realities.
Even in autumn or winter, when it was so cold outside that we could barely feel our fingers, we would find time for the treehouse. I don't quite know why. Perhaps it was because it was a tangible testament of our friendship, and if we neglected the structure, it would be like we were neglecting our friendship.
But perhaps I'm reading into it too much. Perhaps we went simply because we liked it there, in that place which was ours and only ours.
