Part I: The Return

At the heart of "The Daffodil Sky," we find our story’s unnamed hero stepping off a train into a town that seems as elusive as the man himself. A forbidding sign blocks the footbridge he once knew so well, whispering to him of change. His suspicions are confirmed upon entering a familiar pub, now foreign with a new pinball machine and strangers' faces. Engaging the barman in conversation, he inquires about Cora Whitehead, a woman from his past. The barman’s blank expression and repeated reminder that it’s "been a minute" since those days only heighten his sense of loss. Yet a glimmer of recognition comes from another patron, who knows of Cora and assures him she resides on Wellington Street. With this shred of information, he drains his glass and departs.

Part II: Happy Memories

As he steps into the street, memories flood back of his first visit to that very pub. Years melt away to a spring morning when he, a young farmer, steered a cart brimming with daffodils to market. A sudden hailstorm drove him into the pub’s warm refuge, where he collided with Cora—a meeting that sparked instant chemistry. Trapped by the storm, he feared missing the market’s peak hours, but Cora’s comforting words proved prophetic. By day’s end, he had sold every flower to bustling latecomers.

Their chance encounter seemed to herald a new dawn for him. Life glistened with potential as he swapped his cart for a sleek "Beardmore combination" motorcycle, courtesy of Cora’s friend, Frankie Corbett. Prosperity followed their budding romance. By summer’s end, they dreamed of buying the farmland he leased from the elderly Osborne, who was willing to sell favorably. Although their savings fell short, Cora suggested Frankie might help bridge the gap. Inspired by her optimism, he proposed marriage, and she joyfully accepted. Yet his happiness was fleeting. A mere six weeks later, in the cloak of a stormy October night, tragedy struck when he killed Frankie.

Part III: Bitter Memories

Returning to the present, he treads slowly up Wellington Street, shadows of the past clinging to his heels. The sight of a man walking a dog pulls him back to that fateful October evening, reigniting the vivid flashback. He’d known Frankie’s routine, thanks to Cora’s casual mention of his nightly dog walks. As jealousy festered, suspicions grew over Cora’s ties with Frankie, once her lover. Learning of Cora's pregnancy sent his envy spiraling, haunted by the fear that Frankie might be the father. Though he claimed to seek merely a conversation, the night was fraught with darker intentions.

He stopped him, and they stood on the pavement and spoke a word or two. He was trembling violently and the air was a confusion of red and black. A few heavier spits of rain came hastily down and Frankie said he was getting wet and hadn’t all night to stand there jawing over trifles. ‘‘There’s no trifle about this and all I want is a straight answer.’’ Then the dog yapped, splashing in a gutter puddle, and Frankie began to swing the crop. He had a sudden blind idea that the swing of the crop was meant for him. A moment later he was hitting at Frankie with a broccoli knife. It was a thin curved knife and he had sharpened it that morning on the grindstone, with Osborne turning the wheel. Then Frankie lashed at him with the crop and then in return he hit out with the knife again. At the fourth or fifth stroke Frankie fell and hit his skull against the iron lip...