As I walked into her room, every wall stared back at me. Then as if recognising, it’s one of their ally, turned back to their silent conversation. They spoke of a story hidden from the world. The pictures on them were filled with her love and passions. The sticky notes carried her goals and the world map her dreams. The dream catcher wouldn’t speak at all though.
I started rummaging through the drawers. They offered this subtle resistance, as if knowing what I was upto. I bore through it and continued shuffling through her thoughts and masks and trinkets. At the far end of the dark, I found a bag of rocks. Grained, marbled, coloured — they each had a story encapsulated within from places she has been to. No, not this.
Cursing the rise in my anxiety with every passing second, I shoved open her wardrobe. I was met with the smell of the perfume she wears daily. That stunned me for a while. I turned back to see if she was standing there, but then was met with the obvious answer. The cashmere shawl she wraps herself in, during the foggy winter nights, laid there. But not what I wanted.
I stared around in desperation. It has to be here … somewhere. I was about to give up just when my gaze met the rustling leaves of her potted plant by the sill. I walked over, and the tiny weeny blooming smiled at me. The blue silk curtains needed a much-needed flight. So I popped open the window.
And there it was. The mighty gush of winds swept in and the tickling water drops. As the rains dribbling along in all it’s glory, I found what I was looking for. Any memory that made her soul come back from dead again. I had to find her. So I found her. I found me.
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