Flowing, frozen, vaporised, water shapes the lives of a woman, her daughter and her mother in an isolated house in the country. What could have been a ghost story is instead the tender, moving and life-affirming tale of their struggles towards self-realisation. It worked on me like a spell and left me unwilling to surface.
Snow piled up against the door, and the wind, coming from the north, froze it into yellow hunks. The ice wore away at the paint, which crackled and split. Some flaked off, some clung on with the lichen, which was crispy and stubborn, spreading over the door by a fraction of a millimetre.
The windows shivered in their panes. Snow spattered. The frosty draught worked its way through putty, eroding it crumb by crumb.
The steel roof twanged in the cold like an instrument.