She looked bloodless. I don’t remember much about the room but I remember that the walls were beige and made a good background for her pale pink dress. She was in pain. Some sort of pain. Her face was so full of it, her light eyes drowned in it, that she seemed out of my reach. I had realized I was dreaming by the way my field of view ended at her waist. But I made no effort to get up. Suddenly, there was a fierce flicker of something frightening in her eyes, something that convulsed her, made her bite her lips and shut her eyes. “What is it?” I asked. “What’s hurting you?” But she said nothing. Two clear teardrops rolled down her cheeks. She opened her eyes. I took a step towards her. She stepped back. “Tell me,” I said. She lifted her gaze and fixed it on me. She swallowed. Then, mustering all her strength, she shrieked, so loud that I was shaking when I got up.
That day, when I met her in the library, she looked fine. She was chatty and smiling. A month later, she was found dead in her apartment.
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