ninety-nine : dust on the ground
Late in the evening, Lorena finds herself staring out through the living room window into the shifting shadows of the garden. She feels the presence of something beyond what she can see. She is certain that the others must feel it too, and as she turns an ear to the hallway she hears a soft murmur roll through the house, as though each sleeping soul had at once drifted to the furthest edges of reality to find some place between the physical world and the dreamscape, to some place unreachable by the light of day, some place more real than waking life allowed them to see. She closes her eyes and touches her fingertips to the cool window, willing herself to find it, willing herself to see, to know. Moonlight climbs the wall behind her, lifting with it the sweet, heady smell of flowering jasmine that weaves its way into the house through tiny cracks around the window. She lowers her hand, exhaling slowly as her fingers run over the glass.
There is a shift in the atmosphere. She opens her eyes to find that the shadows have become more dense, somehow solid.
Behind her, the dust rises as if disturbed by some unseen footstep, motes spiralling upward into slanting beams of moonlight which guide them through the air to a new resting place atop an open book, a glass, a white piano key.
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