I live in a village at the top of a hill in rural Spain or Italy. The buildings are tightly packed together, made of beautiful red stone or render. The sun is casting a strong orange afternoon light. It looks like a Hopper painting. My eldest daughter is at our apartment, on the top floor of our building which is perhaps four stories high.  I'm out on the streets - I look up and I see my eldest daughter is out on our small balcony.  Above it is what looks like a skinny bell-tower, but it is part of the architecture of the flats. There are arches and red tiles. I am running down the steep narrow street because I had left somebody waiting. My daughter wanted to come with me but instead she jumps up and down on the balcony waving her arms to catch my attention. I turn back and look at her - I'm worried she will fall. I shout back to her to tell her not to jump up and down on the balcony.