It was then that she looked at me, her face fresh and unburdened by the last two decades—illuminated by the light, the soft coins of the poplars falling around us—and asked if I had ever caught a falling leaf. I told her I hadn’t ever tried and she seemed surprised, said that she had always wanted to but never could.
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You squint as the device interface lights up, tap an icon, type some vague notion into the search engine, choose the first result: a hypnotist with a German accent drawling on about how you’re walking through a forest, and then you’re floating in a lagoon, taking meaningful, measured breaths, over and over, you are weightless, serene.
He was born, I remember, during a thunder-pause (the moment when the sky sucks its breath back). His mother named him after the prophet who never died, only rose in a rust-red chariot. At four, he climbed inside the neighbour’s discarded piano and pressed the flats until they lulled him asleep. Keys tasted of tin and mother-of-pearl; he swallowed a B-minor that never passed.
