I was in a train station.

    This train station made me feel uneasy. The pillars were of a dark, diseased kind of green, like the greens of vomits. The walls were of a morbid stone grey. Simply put, there was hardly colour and life. The train stations I have been too are always bustling with people rushing into and out of trains. I remember gripping my daughter’s hand tightly so that I would not lose her in the crowd.

    I sat on the bench, pursed lips, brows in a frown, elbows on knees and my head resting on my knuckles. A woman in white came to sit beside me. She put her arms around my shoulder and together we stood up, with me just blindly following her. My head was down as my hands dipped into my coat pockets. It was then when I felt something.

    The gift box.

    I took it out and fiddled with it. A pang of pain hit me and I shut my eyes.

    We were in my car. She was holding the box. I heard her gurgling with laughter. Laughter than makes my heart explodes into blossoms. Hearing her laugh made me laugh too. Laughter that never sounded so genuine before; so beautiful.

    Then came a crash and it all went black.

    My daughter!

    As if I had struck a chord in me, I suddenly remembered. My daughter! I flung the woman’s hand away and sprinted to the link between two floors. I heard laughter. I looked down and my eyes widened when I saw my daughter chasing a butterfly. I hurried to the lift.

    The lift was an old, old one. The ones which need you to drag a grilled door across from left to right to close it. It was wooden, and very, very slow. I looked up and saw the woman in white staring down at me. I couldn’t read her expression. I didn’t bother. Through the grill, I saw my daughter chasing after a black cat now. I knew what that meant.

    It meant I didn’t have much time left.