A história toda.

The half-stories haunted me. I wanted more of them.
Half-stories? you said. Is that what you think?
It was March and still cold, though right now down in the garden the crocuses were shivering under a clear and starry sky and in a few hours the dead tree behind the houses would be a tree of birds, rising and settling and calling.
Half-stories, you said. Well, that's fine. No, it's absolutely fine. No, I'm not upset. No, but I'm not telling you the next story. You can tell the next story. The whole story. A proper story. Come on. I'm waiting.

[ Ali Smith: "A Story of Love." Other Stories and Other Stories. ]