Bokelskere.no

The wind pours down North Parade and soaks right through her. The air moves past her mouth, too fast for her lips to catch. She stands still, waiting for a breath to come her way, utterly insubstantial. It occurs to her that she died some weeks ago and never noticed. Perhaps the whole city is populated with ghosts, and their faces are made of powder, and their hooped skirts are empty as bells.