[ WP ] An old woman sits alone with a picture

Eleanor sheltered from the rain, hauled up in an attic, guarded by dust and cardboard boxes. Her gramophone pianoed out the sound of water falling on the roof, which ran down the gutters, streaming, splashing against a concrete walkway two stories below. Beside her sat an open box, and on one flap, written in another's hand, it read `` Paris, 1929.'' From this box, she drew another photograph. 
 
 She held it up to the light, squinted, saw nothing, and then pressed it against the window. 
 
 Grey light shone through: young women dining one summer's day, cobbled city streets, aperitifs, a newly concocted soup that never took, fur coats, strings of pearls, rolled stockings, cloche hats. 
 
 All the women had joked and hid their faces as the photographer, a friend of a friend of a friend, had taken the shot. 
 
 Coming from outside, Eleanor heard laughter. 
 
 She let the photograph slip to the floor and watched as a little girl -- 5, 6, 7? -- sprinted out onto the grass. The girl ran and pumped her little arms until she met a puddle sitting in the middle of the lawn, throwing water into the air. When she slid to a stop, the girl slipped off and threw away her shoes and then, still darned to her knees in sock, she began to kick and stomp 
 
 The girl played for who knows how long. As she played and the rain washed over her, her hair grew clung to her face and neck. The hem of her floral dress drew brown with mud. She span, punched, laughed, kicked daises into the sleet, laughed more, on and on until she began to tire. And then, when the girl could move no more, condensation falling, she sat her bottom right down in the deepest section of the puddle and the excess water escaped onto the grass. Her face flushed red. 
 
 Worried thoughts infiltrated Eleanor's mind. She banged on the window but the girl could not hear her. She gripped to both sides of the window-frame and pulled, but it would not move. She heaved once more, but again there was nothing. Left with no other choice, she tried to squeeze herself out of the chair, but then suddenly, as if in answer to her prayers, Eleanor heard a door sliding open below. 
 
 Watching, a man jogged out onto the lawn with a newspaper held over his head and a woolen sweater bundled in his other arm. When the little girl saw the man coming toward her, she dragged herself to her feet. She crossed her arms, but her father ignored the protest on her face and drew the sweater over her head until it was well past her knees. When he was done, he lightly patted his daughter's hair, said something sweet but who can remember, and jogged himself back inside. 
 
 In the rain. Alone once more, the girl tried to spin and kick again. But the moment was lost. She chased after her father. 
 
 edit: happy ending: 
 
 Below, the door slid to a close again. Eleanor listened to the growls of parents, to the fleeing, chasing, laughter. And then, heart beating, the tiny footsteps clambered up the staircase. The old woman stared at the attic door and wiped away the last few tears. In burst the girl, into her arms, wet, smelling of daisies and mud.
