I believe that we always find time to wait. Or maybe time finds us to wait. She finds me sitting on a rickety stool inside a cabin made of stone and clay within the woods of forgetfulness and infidelity. She finds me. Or maybe she finds what remains of me. Strands of hair that have fallen for each passing age and fingertips so hard pressed that all color has left them.

She finds me and she will knock. Within the center of centers, her hands shall politely tap across my door. But it will not open. I won’t let it. The polite taps will become impatient raps. Uncertainty shall yield to will resolute. But I will not open. And still, more strands of hair shall fall and fingertips reduced to crust and bone. They’re so ugly, so rusty, so weak and meaningless and feeble and insecure from being kept inside this house for too long.

And the knockings shall stop, as sudden as she came. And every individual knock that has graced my house shall echo across these walls. The rickety stool will tremble at the thought of her leaving. Ages shall regress to recall the fleeting sensation of her fingers across my door.