Always intrigued, inquisitive, and curious. She walked. Well acquainted with harm but healing, always healing. Like the cats that watched her from the shadowed side passages. Intrigued, inquisitive, curious, but cautious.
Her path was the same. As the chill lessened, she grew fond of late January. Fond of its clarity. Her temple on the hill. Meditation through step. Which she at times found better than the wheel. When it all got too much, she would walk. When she thought too much of her life and its destination, she walked. Accented by her choice of music and the rhythm of the road, of the dance between those she would cross. These steps were important. In her vehicle, she could keep to the shadowed side passages. Caution always winning. But she didn’t want to live forever unseen. She wanted to feel the sun.
Was it so bad to want to feel the sun?
He saw her. He always would. On the good days, at 5:46, her footsteps would sound. And he would watch from his second-floor window. Room always dark. As her small enough frame would come into focus, step by step he would seek if he had seen a garment on her before, a recognition for him alone. He picked out his favorites that he felt would go best, waiting for the day they were worn together. Watching her hair bounce, that which was never left past her shoulders, her calm expression, her lips, waiting to see how they would part when she breathed in. When he breathed in.
He would wait every day, and when she came, he would peer until she would disappear, or until she never showed at all. Waiting for the right day.