Pen in hand, she begins to write a letter, but hesitates. She cannot recall to whom it should be addressed.
Her fingers search across the numbers on the phone but are unable to form the sequence.
She meanders through the city in grand looping paths because she has no clear destination.
A tiny light-filled stone is rolled between her warm fingers transforming it into a glowing opal. She doesn’t know why.
With gasp of air, time moves backwards.
My fists are pushed stiffly into my pockets. I release my own hand. There is a fiery opal on my finger, a gift from my father.
I walk to the museum to visit a friend, a painting, which has hung on the same wall for decades.
My fingers softly tap out a series of digits to hear a familiar voice on the line. Is it you?
I type out these words. Hit send.