She waits still.

Every morning, when the first rays of light caress the gauzy drapes surrounding her bed, she gets up and waits.

The same position every morning, the elbows crooked on the windowsill, soft hands a pillow for her cheeks, she sits on that cushioned stool and waits, staring into the clouds with longing.

“When will the time come? It’s been so long already.”

She wears the same red ribbon in her hair, the same cream coloured frock, the same delicate silk slippers on her tiny feet.

She is the same as the day that person left.

“How long has it been?” she wonders

“Days, months, years?”…centuries?”

She waits with such devotion she does not hear the voices, the calls

“Snap out of it!”

“Wake up please…you’re scaring us.”

She does not feel the body wasting, the spirit drifting

She does not hear the tears of pain and sadness; goodbye.

She is lost in her own little world.

She does not see the fine dust settling on the vanity.

The cobwebs in the ceiling corners

The mould covering the wainscoting.

The vines slowly creeping around her window till they begin to choke the life of the house itself.

The framed butterfly hangings on her walls lose their shine and begin to fade and darken with age.

She looks out the window everyday but she does not see the changing scenery, the strange noisy contraptions on wheels, the smoking towers, the tall, tall never ending glass monuments. Everything changes in a fast colourful blur but her mind focuses only on waiting for that person.

She smiles remembering the first time that person came, the tinkling sound, a shimmering butterfly flying into her room in the night, transforming into a person, that person. The top hat, red coat, high boots, the long necklace fashioned out of shells, beads, a child’s tiny doll. She remembers the wide smile, the white, white hair. A person neither young nor old, standing there in the middle of her room glowing in that shimmering light.

“Come.” that person had said without making one sound, grabbing her hand and running towards the suddenly shimmering mirror and then they were jumping, falling, flying. She remembers seeing nothing but the thousands and thousands of shimmering butterflies. And then she was there, at that place unreal yet so beautiful.

Then she hears it. The faint tinkling, the sound so so familiar.

Chimes? A tiny bell? That person always arrived with a tinkling sound. It is always a game, a signal between them. Time to go that place

She feels something she hasn’t felt in a long time. Excitement sprouts like a tiny seed with her being and grows, grows, grows, till she feels she’s about to burst.

Her lips split open in a smile and she raises herself on her weak forearms leaning out of the window to catch a glimpse of that person. In her happiness her weakness is forgotten, she feels stronger than ever.

But what, what is this? A strange colourful contraption on wheels decorated with paintings of confections is making its way down the street and as the tinkling gets louder she realises with a sinking feeling, it is not the same.

What, what is this? She can feel the happiness slowly beginning to deflate and then she realises, outside the window where she has been sitting, waiting, day after day, she realises, she sees the changed scenery, the strange noisy contraptions on wheels, the smoking towers, the tall, tall never ending glass monuments.

And a fear as never before grips her. A nightmare.

A soft breeze begins to blow caressing her bare arms, her cheeks, chilling her to the bone.

It teases through her hair working at the crimson silk ribbon flicking it in her face softly pulling it out of her hair.

Before she can recover from her shock it has floated out of the window, bouncing in the air going up up till it’s out of sight as she watches in horror, mouth opened in a soundless cry.

They are at that place, the handpainted trees and flowers sway gently in the breeze, the little bejewelled animals come closer, sniffing and her fingers. The sweet ocean spray leaves droplets of liquid on her dress and she smiles. Everything is so peaceful, so idyllic. She turns towards that person but there is no longer a smile on that face. One hand lifts to tuck a lock of unruly hair behind her ear the other produces a crimson silk ribbon which is lovingly tied in her hair. Sad eyes stare into hers and she feels a tiny prick of fear. Her hand is raised and cold lips kiss her palm. And then that person is gone, nothing left but shimmering butterflies. She blinks in confusion and she is home again at her window, the breeze whispering, “Wait, wait…” while the ribbon flaps in her face.

Her most precious memory from that person forever gone, lost.

She sinks to the cold floor in despair, oblivious to the hot tears welling in her eyes, running down her deathly pale cheeks, dripping onto her ice-cold hands.

She has waited for so long.

And just then she realises that that person may never come.

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The ribbon flies merrily over the rooftops going higher than the trees, higher than smoking towers, to the tops of the tall glass monuments, till a hand plucks it out of the air and that person smiles and runs, jumping, falling, and then flying, a shimmering butterfly.

“I’m coming.”

The End