Depressing the dull brass handle with a thumb, it gives a satisfying click and the heavy red door pushes inward toward me. I step with bare feet onto the cold floor, staring right and left at all the white pillars, then the diamond tiles. I run a hand along the balustrade. It remains solid and unwelcome.
The wind rushes like waves in a dark ocean above my head. Chimes and branches speak of it in loud whispers of motion. Shadows sway across me, but I don't feel them.
Another click of the thumb, the flame flares and dies, and I exhale a breath of smoke, watching it cascade away in seconds. Steps away, I take a seat and rock. Back and forth. Back and forth. Listening.
Dust dry snow drifts against my toes. I close my eyes, remembering all the times I sat here before. A hushed world watches me, waiting.
The cigarette goes out.
I stop shaking.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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I had forgotten momentarily that isolation can at the right times, isolation can be a good thing. Thank you very much for reminding me of that.