At Dusk

At dawn

September brought the hope of rain to Londrina, although the thin streak of humidity was not enough to dissipate the day's heat or the lack of it during the nights. The region had now a roller-coaster climate. As a result, the temperatures easily plummeted and skyrocketed.

It should be spring, and yet the fields that surrounded the city center were far from blooming. The few crops that survived remained dry and yellowish, as if nothing could grow properly. 

Tina was curled into a fetal position, partially breathing through her mouth. Her hands clutched the blankets to ascertain they would stay in place. He caressed her hair, but she did not move. Her skin was scorching hot. He wondered if she had a fever and compared the temperature of their foreheads. It was probably the layers of blankets that piled over her.

She was so sweet, he thought, even when she was fast asleep. Looking at her always brought a warm sensation into his life. Sleep tight, he said as he kissed her hair.

He grabbed a light coat from his wardrobe and stepped outside. The early morning air was still chilly, as the sun had not yet made his presence felt. Even before Tina came live with him, he had developed the habit of taking a walk in the earliest morning hours; before he sat down to write his now substantial book. He could go through this ritual every morning. Wake up at five. Kiss Tina goodbye and walk religiously to the same spot.

In the first few days, he had not realized where his feet were taking him until the wasteland near his neighborhood stretched in front of him, reminding him of another wasteland, where he had seen the lights all those months ago. 

Perhaps there was a pattern, he thought. Perhaps whatever it was that provoked the lights would appear again. But it was just wishful thinking, he knew even as he speculated. 

What he had witnessed was the only connection he had with the unknown, which lately had been a great source of inspiration. Her story, whoever she was, would be told. He was already fifty thousand words in and the ritual of walking there in the small hours of the morning never failed to connect him to something greater, something that came from outside, from very far away. It reminded him that whatever he had seen was real.

In his imagination, she was still there, locked away in some layer invisible to his eyes. He had searched again and again for similar events on the web, he had even talked to a few people who knew of such events. But in every report he got, the alleged abductions did not match what he had witnessed. In their stories, the kidnappers always came from the sky.

Only in a few cases of such disappearances, did the victims come back. It was a slim chance, but he took it to heart that she too would return.

But even if she did, he wouldn't know it. How could he? He did not know her. She might be seventy and she might be twelve, brunette, blonde, or redhead. He didn't have a clue. Yet he wished he could show her what she had inspired. The story, the setting, it all revolved around her, the mysterious persona he witnessed drifting away in a pool of light.

Maybe... he reasoned, maybe she hadn't been kidnapped. Maybe she belonged somewhere else and was just being rescued. The world was about to end and someone didn't want her to end with it. Maybe she just went back home, wherever it was.  

In his story, his main character could communicate with the mysterious woman. Only a tissue separated them, so some dialogue was possible within their different timeframes.

The reality, on the other hand, was less plastic than fiction. The only unusual thing that had happened while he was taking his morning walks was that one day he was almost mugged by a drunkard. However, having been a drunkard himself, he talked the man out of the idea, while still surrending him some money in the end.

That had been a funny day. By the end of it, he had written almost ten thousand words. It was the adrenaline, he had told himself.

Perhaps other people had experienced strange phenomena over there too. He never thought about it, about the wasteland itself and its relation to people. He ought to write that down.  

He'd better start walking back since the heat would be upon the land soon, scorching the surface, painting it all in yellow. It was curious, he thought, that the only inhabitable moments were now dusk and dawn, every other time of the day or night was too extreme to endure. 

For now, the sky still retained mild and fresh bluish hues, which meant it was still safe for him.