Saltmort hunkered down for a flat stone and skimmed it along the lake. On turning back he scrambled up to the grassy bank, plonked down and cast a glance around. His old ramshackle orphanage stood right ahead of him. Its dilapidated doors, worn patches on the wall, weathered stone steps, etiolated creepers curling around the pergola evoked long lost memories, made allusions to numerous stories. A monument to all the happiness his childhood was forbidden. A mother in true sense. He did have his best days. The flood of nostalgia broke its bank.

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