My Irish Cottage (Incomplete)

For this introduction just read the Intro for the previous poth, the same applies here

The countryside is quiet, the grass, an emerald shade of swirling patterns as a gentle country breeze picks up the fallen Autumn leaves and sends them spiraling towards the solitary brickwork cottage perched atop the gentle rise of the grassy hill.

The cottage is almost completely still, the soft braying of cattle and the click-clack of typewriter keys drifting on the air, the only sounds that gently suspend the silence.

In sharp contrast to the quaint, old-world feel of the cottage, a fire-engine-red 1966 ford mustang rests quietly in the long driveway, a beast waiting in repose, seemingly sensing the inevitable moment when it will once again come roaring to life, knowing that moment is never far away.

A short distance away, behind the cottage, Avril sits quietly, perched atop her favourite spot, a small rocky outcropping overlooking the quiet countryside. She stares off into nothing, lost in her thoughts, caught between this world and a thousand others.
She's brought gently from her reverie by the constant tapping sounds of the typewriter keys drifting down from the upstairs window of the cottage. A smile lifts the ends of her mouth at the distraction, as she thinks about the cause. He's up there again, probably mumbling to himself, under his breath, as he tries desperately to string together the right combination of words, working to get them just right to bring life to his thoughts but never satisfied with the results of his efforts.
She used to love watching him write. She would watch his mind working, through his eyes and the lines of concentration forming on his forehead as worlds were born and destroyed on the waves of thought swirling within his head. She loved it. She loved the magic of what he did, even though he could never see it, or understand her love of it.