I was riding to work on the first train, as usual, and looking out the window at the countryside I’d seen a hundred different times before.

And then–I don’t know what triggered it–a flood of memories came back to me. Sights, sounds, and images from a long-ago and long-forgotten dream. Usually they fuzz away into nothingness before you’ve even fully woken up.

But once in a while, they come back.

I had a vision of a little town in a valley, mostly wood houses with just a few modern buildings mixed in. Snowy in the winter to the point of being practically cut off, dreamy and hot in the summer with long sunbeams glinting off brightly-painted porches.

I remember a little house–my house?–with an open porch and a swing and a bright yellow paint job.

I remember waiting for someone, someone I loved, someone I missed or was missed by during long and hard winter nights.

But I can’t remember their face, their name, or what brought us both to that little yellow house in the snowy valley.