This woman walks through a forgotten garden where leaves crunch and small twigs snap under her feet. She is unaware of these sounds. A thorn on a dry rose bush catches her skirt, an attempt to stop or warn her. The small buds have turned into themselves and shriveled into dark blood red.
Everything is a lifeless version of itself in the parched garden where she moves with purpose.
As she walks, her left hand holds a small object which she releases to her right hand. Back and forth she repeats this gesture, handing the thing off, as if it’s hot to the touch.
Her palm opens to reveal a matchbook. She observes it with surprise while tearing off a single match.
Striking it, there is no spark and it falls to the ground. She continues walking and striking matches. Unlit, they fall from her fingers.
Moving along a dry brown path, she strikes again. There is a burst of bright fire which settles as a tiny flame. It too, falls to the dusty earth and erupts. She keeps moving, dropping small fires that ignite the desiccated rose bushes behind her.
A trail of smoke and flame mark her trajectory through the dead garden.