She was there waiting for the warmth of the sun but there could be no sun because it was the night.
It was always the night because this was not the earth. The planet where she had exiled knew no sunshine; it was freezing, dark and lonely.
He would try to reach her with his long fingers, he would try so hard and with all his heart, but there was nothing to reach, only the cold touch of the glazed paper of a photograph.
The only picture of a date that he had missed long ago.
Where this picture had come from, he had no idea. He wasn’t there, the day it was taken. And he had forgotten how it had come to him.
The only memory he had, so vivid it hurt, was of her face. Her pale face, her skin so white and the bloody red of her lips that shone in his dreams like a dying sun. He remembered her curled brown locks framing her strong chin and falling down softly on her delicate shoulders.
He remembered her hands too: white as the snow, long and thin and remarkably big. Her hands that he never got to hold, let alone touch.
But he couldn’t remember her eyes, nor her name. She was lost to him, he was told.
She was long gone.
Or was it her? He thought vehemently, but couldn’t remember. He clenched his fists so hard he hurt his hands in the process. His long white hands, so thin they looked almost fragile.
Was he a He?
What was his name?
Someone would tell him, the person he was waiting for, but if that person was coming, he couldn’t see.
He was lost in a place that didn’t look like anything he knew, didn’t even felt like the Earth.
And the coldness here was making him numb. He wondered if he ever had a body.
He was on the verge of falling asleep when faces came into sight, lots of faces, and there was noise, too.
Closer and closer to him, concerned faces, screaming, roaring, murmuring, asking questions he couldn’t hear. The sudden invasion made him dizzy.
They were talking so loud, saying he had been shot. That there was a bullet in his head. All that, fleeting words that he couldn’t grasp. He saw blood. Bright blood that shone so hard it was blinding.
And then, among all that mess, he saw that special face, the only discernible one, the one that he loved.
Was it male or female, was it old or was it young, he couldn’t say. But it was beautiful.
He tried to reach out to touch it, but his hand didn’t move, so he simply stared. He stared in wonder as the pale face slowly mutated into a whole silhouette that bend to grasp the pale, unresponsive hands, caressing his soft brown hair.
Then, like a shadow, it took the photograph he had been holding in his hands.
Was it crying for him, the dying being wondered? He forgot the question because he had just realized there was a new quality to the face, a forgiving look that he found fascinating.
All of the sudden there was relief, a feeling so intense it made him pant. He took one last glance at the figure, and then one last inspiration, released so freely that, when he exhaled, his soul flew away with his breath.
