I sat by the water as if I had arrived too early for an appointment no one intended to keep. The tree shook down its bright fragments—small, impatient notes that I could not read. Across the lake the moon practiced its circular handwriting, laying a pale ladder on the surface. The rungs held, but only for their own reflection. I understood then that climbing would mean falling, politely and without protest, into the place prepared for me.
The horizon stitched a thin seam through the evening, and everything on either side behaved as though it belonged elsewhere. I waited until it seemed reasonable to stand, and then I kept sitting. The flowers to my right breathed a shy perfume, like apologies for a mistake I had made long ago and could not name. When the wind paused, even my breath sounded borrowed. It grew clear that the light was not visiting us; we were being inspected by it. I promised to remember this—how the world looked back—and already felt the promise loosening, like a button that will not hold through the night.
