We lounge in the patio’s late sun, half asleep, as the children ramble in and out of the paddling pool, the house, their fantasy worlds.
“This tile is magic,” our youngest tells us, running her palms over its smooth ceramic, and we smile at her earnestness.
“It’s a door to another world.” She is scrutinising each corner.
Now her neat pink lips mumble gibberish as her fingers trace intricate paths over the swirly pattern.
We exchange glances, raise an eyebrow.
She rubs her hands together and places them, tiny fingers splayed, on the centre of the tile.
And she is gone.