“June,” Val said, gesturing with her mug toward the shed. “That’s when the real cold comes. Not your cold, mind you. Ours. Damp, creeping cold that gets into your bones because the houses are built to let the summer breeze through. The hills will turn purple with the jasmine. The wattles will go bonkers—yellow, fluffy explosions everywhere. And the magpies will stop swooping and start singing their spring songs, even though it’s the dead of winter.”
Maggie looked up. The sky wasn't the pale, washed-out blue of a northern autumn. It was a deep, startling cobalt, the kind that made you feel like you could fall into it. The air smelled of dry earth and eucalyptus oil—not rot and decay, but a slow, quiet release. australia's seasons
Maggie took a sip. “It’s strange,” she said. “Everyone at home is posting about ‘spring cleaning’ and tulips. Meanwhile, you’re wearing a cardigan and talking about the autumn leaves.” “June,” Val said, gesturing with her mug toward the shed
“That’s backwards,” Maggie whispered. ” Maggie whispered.
“No,” Val said softly. “It’s just here .”