Harry felt a familiar tug on his heart whenever he saw the shape of a Triumph Herald. There was something about the way the rear quarter windows terminated in an acutely angled sloping point of glass that seemed to resonate within him indescribably. Besides, Harry felt no need to describe such a sensation because it did not encounter him all that often anymore. At least, that was the case until the first Thursday of January, when he finally acknowledged the faded burgundy Triumph that was parked at the end of his road, a few doors down from the house, since the morning of New Year’s Day. He had passed it six times on the way to the high street to fetch mother’s shopping. Triumphs aren’t made anymore and Harry guessed that the car he could see from between the lace curtains that were drawn across the lounge bay windows was probably assembled towards the end of the cars’ twelve-year production lifespan, as it boasted the angular headlamp formation and horizontal grille slats that were no
Indie author of science fiction and creepy stories, living in North Wales