The daughter of autumn longs for that one day she managed to taste, to breathe in, to live, to strip of old meanings and dress in new ones. She tries to chase away the clouds that cast shadows on her soul, but for now, all she can do is let through a single ray, just one—like a barefoot visitor in a sterile room, where the patient struggles to hold on to one more day. She catches it by the edge of a floral skirt, like a gypsy’s, but the silk slips away, slyly, between fingers with unbelievably long nails. She sighs and resigns herself, but the days keep drifting past his bedside. Until even they tire of this game without a worthy opponent. Step, step, step, step... The little ray drags itself along, unsure. It was born different—it limps.
It will never have the strength of its brothers and sisters, but it has vision... It pretends not to hear the voice of pointless death and fixes its playful light onto cadaverous fingers with those incredible nails. The day enters unbothered, arrogance measuring its hours. The fogs have gifted it strength and courage. It swishes its brazen gypsy skirt by the bedside of the life-weary. And then it freezes as the index finger’s nail—that long nail she had dismissed for so long—tears the silk, making room for the limping ray to flutter from the soul like wings stretched wide, ready to wrestle the sky in a long-awaited victory. A scent of peppered amber caresses the air, which swells with joy and fills the lungs, pulsing through them moment after moment after moment...