This morning I followed the well-worn trail of a woman I've never met through a cheerfully painted apartment complex and along an abandoned construction site. Without a word and my footsteps mere moments behind hers, we traipsed between old, decaying homes where the breeze whistled through the broken glass teeth of the windows, as though the shacks were struggling to catch their breath.
It's strange that I distinctly remember three buildings here, though anyone with eyes on that empty stretch of weathered pavement would know that there has only ever been two. And as she evaporated, like dew, into the sunrise, I could not help but wonder:
Am I in a story?