Return to Collector of Words (fiction)



When I got back, the apartment looked the same, but she was gone. There was no note, but I could tell.

True to her word she hadn't taken anything. She had promised, more than once, that she would leave every book, every rough draft, every post-it note.
Everything was as I had left it. As she had left it. Probably the day after I had left, but I'll never know. It was preserved the way chairs and desks are arranged in history museums. I think that is what she had intended.

So, here is where I started figuring things out. Sometimes things just happen. Good, bad: hard to tell. It might take years for you to understand the how and the why.
Someone once said you can't blame the wind for blowing.

You also can't lose paradise if you were never lucky enough to find it.


The End

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