There is a storm coming. The sky is dark with clouds. We are running for shelter – some haven I cannot see. I stretch out my hand to you. You take it – hesitantly at first – but then you squeeze tightly.
We run – breathless in the gathering gloom – through tall grass, as the wind rises in our faces.
I turn and try to say your name, but no words emerge. Something in the grass catches my eye. I stop to see and it's already behind me. I release your hand and walk back to find pens on the ground…my pens. I sense you calling out to me. I look at your face, your mouth is moving, but I hear nothing.
I retrieve my pens and see papers spread out on the ground. They are not blowing in the wind, but entangled in the grass.
They are my papers…my words written for you. I feel panic grow within me as I try to grab them, collecting them before they disappear. Schoolboys in gray uniforms stand nearby, laughing at my efforts. They aren't running – only pointing and calling me a fool.
A cold, hard rain begins to fall. I turn to look for you, and you're gone…