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It was a warm summer evening in Arr, a quiet and lovely city in southern France.

Flowers and trees blossomed all around, and picturesque little houses adorned every street.

Like the flowers, these homes were colourful and sunny. It was almost as if they were in constant

competition with the nature around them to see who could be brighter and more cheerful.

One such house stood in the middle of a square, nestled in the heart of the city.

This evening, the rich sunlight shone upon the house.

It was buttery yellow in colour. It shutters all painted a vibrant green.

The facade was partially obscured in places by blooming only andes and acasias,

which provided the perfect dollops of colour outside this cozy and welcoming home.

The branches of the oeander's were bejeweled with pink flowers and had a smattering of white ones as well.

The acacia trees had oval green leaves and delicate yellow blooms.

A few people walked up and down the street, going about their business at a leisurely pace,

not rushing to get anywhere.

It was clear that life moved more slowly here. Everyone seemed happy,

light and patient as though they had learned to enjoy the art of doing nothing.

On the first floor of the yellow house, the green shutters of one of the windows were open.

A tall, thin man stood behind the glass looking out onto the street.

...