Sta.sh
Hours of deserts have passed on those desolate waves. She can barely see through the thick mist all around, but she won't surrender, not until she can actually see.
The world has had a pearly light hue since that particular second – when she opened her eyes the screen of reality had gone, and the shapes had already faded into that curious mingle of greyish clouds. But there is no way to know what lies beyond the veils, what truth she must have left behind.
Something must be there anyway. She believes, she knows she is hearing – far away in the white, the echoes arrive from endless distances. They are muffled voices screaming in terror, endless yells of desperation.
She is delicate and kind, she is worried – but her hand is way too transparent, and her fingers are light feathers on the surface. She can't get through, there are no open roads for her; the frame of her flesh pierces the nothingness, flowing and flowing without being able to touch.
Something must have happened to her. What happened, however, she doesn't seem to know.
Her struggles won't find the results she is looking for; their nature forces them out of the balance of the universe.
She died without knowing why – it is only natural that she cannot know any more. And this is what happens to all of her companions in fate; her stay won't make a difference at all.
They, on the other hand, must not matter. They are on the other side, unreachable and unseen, caught in the pain of an event which shouldn't exist – which does not exist to them, not yet – while their voices lift in loud cries, bound to have no answer for the rest of time. And this, although she doesn't really know why, is what she regrets this more than anything.
That is the moment when she understands, when a current lifts her airy spirit and leaves behind but a mild shade of melancholy.
She has to rest for good. She moves on, without remembering.
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