A rope stretches to infinity before you. It is red and thin and frayed, and sways snakelike out of view. It is matter-of-fact; it is the arrow of time, quietly pressing you on. Nobody can walk with you, now, in this cocoon of headlamp bright and raven dark β you have only your jagged breath and memory for company.
You wonder idly how sheβs doing, and whether you might have worked as an architect or sailor. At ten, you dreamt of discovering a treehouse in the schoolyard acacias; you are suddenly certain it had always been visible through the branches. Unconsciously, your grip on the rope tightens to a painful vise, a whiteknuckled longing for the past that belies your forward trudge.
Somewhere far away, behind you and across the ice, somebody jots down the time.