Like the breaking of a fever, the thing called time - fractures,
cools, ebbs away, a wave in retreat. There is debris left behind all the
flotsam and jetsam washed up. There are husks of butterflies everywhere; dropping
like leaves from the edges of windows, from the fronds and trellises of bush
and plant, from the walls and the trees. They crunch under foot.
“Ugh,” the girl exclaims twisting her foot to peer disgustedly
at the sole of her boot, “disgusting!”
She looks up again and at the old man. “What is it?”
she asks with an exaggerated wrinkle of her nose.
The man waits, toying with a broken I.D. disc – one of
the objects found in his evidence searches, of itself just a small piece of
twisted metal, the old man has decided to give some meaning to the object, to
the name stamped on it – Lee Chuang.
The girl blinks and asks slowly. “Who – are – you?”
It could go on forever like that.