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in a particularly dry and cloudless night, murata himeko falls to her death.

the fall is always cast in the light of the full moon. often, most often the subtle colors of the night fade into black and white, save for her hair in bloody scarlet.

sharp slivers of moonlight caught against thin, loose strands of spider-silk, which appear and disappear at a glance, that they seem to cut deep into memory, like papercuts which for a moment remain invisible.

and the moment is captured in still motion: drops of dew cling to the brass of the cogs, humming and shuddering ragefully in their silken restraints, the breeze billows her hair, seemingly on and on without purpose, and a bead of sweat, which strokes along her chin and seem to cling to her face forever before the fall.

and she smiles at you, grit on her cheek, a mischievous glint in her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, unwavering and unafraid, because she knows you’re going to catch her in time.

and in this moment, as the world is waiting for the fall, there is a gentle peace. all everything is desperately mute except for the groaning of the clockwork, the world cast in subtle, soft silver.

you could write a thousand words before the fall. maybe none of them very good—you could spend all that time struggling to put the words together well, mulling over and mouthing different phrasings over and over, praying you eventually stumble onto something half-decent.

but…

…there are just no words for this.

strands of spider-silk seem to carve the moment into countless mirrored reflections, in each of them a world of colors you think you’ve never seen before, in each of them another himeko, in each of them her shimmering golden eyes, brimming and aglow with a morbid infusion of liquid confidence and humor, still yet to dim as, in the fraction of a fraction of a second, her pupils slowly pulse with dilatation, anticipating what’s about to happen before her brain has fully processed it.

and at another glance, the moonlight caught in the webs seem to vanish and the world is mend together again, only to reveal one haunting, unavoidable, broken truth:

that in a particularly dry and cloudless night, murata himeko will fall to her death.

3 hours before the fall, a sunset in prague.

an author, slender and gaunt, awkwardly struggles to eat an unripe peach, caught in a staring contest with an old man eating fish sat across the tables, who seems to be having the time of his life watching her struggle.

“fran?”

the tug of warm forearms against her chest. red hair like dollops of sunset sun unfurl, brushing against the meek girl’s shoulders, her world enveloped in curtains of billowing fire, maybe the only bit of color amongst the washed, monochromatic streets of the city.

“you’ve been staring daggers at that man for ages. has he said something to you, my love?”

“miss himeko.” franziska blinks, unsurprised—she had sensed her approaching. “how long have you been watching me?”

“i’ve been sat behind you for at least ten to fifteen minutes.” himeko whispers down kafka’s ears with a grin. “pretty impressive of me, considering your enhanced senses, hm?”

kafka feels the tingling of a blush start to burn at the tip of her nose.

“i don’t sense you at all while you’re standing still, my love.” she sips at her water, trying not to look like she’s losing her cool whilst maintaining her glare towards the drunk old man, who is now tactlessly pointing and laughing at her and her peach to his wife. “i thought you would’ve known that already.”

kafka slowly presses her fork against the peach and moves to slide her knife into it. the peach slips out yet again, owing to the awful combination of a dull knife, the unripe and shriveled peach, and kafka’s lack of control over her own super-strength.

the old man wheezes, banging his fist against his table.

even himeko snorts.

“fuck.” kafka mutters.

himeko gently holds the back of kafka’s knife-hand.

“you’re tense.” she smirks. “relax, darling.”

kafka, frustrated, quietly snaps out: “well of course i’m tense—”

she’s interrupted as a trail of fingertips trace along her jawline, gently leading her gaze away from her adversary and straight up into the eyes of her lover. himeko, staring into kafka’s coral eyes, whisks away her bowl of peach with her deft sleight of hand, sliding her arm forward, pressing lower and further and deeper, sinking her lips into a kiss.

when they part, the old man is already looking away, almost choking on the bones of his fish from embarrassedly and hurriedly trying to finish his meal, blushing embarrassingly red.

“there,” himeko whispers out, the smug expression on her lips failing to conceal her breathlessness. “solved it for you.”

“are… are you drunk already?” asks kafka, dizzied by the sour taste of red on her lips.

“it’s a sunday. i can have whatever i want. including you.”

she takes kafka by the hand, at first kissing it, then, giving it a little lick, and as kafka thinks it couldn’t get more embarrassing, she starts sniffing it, like a little puppy—and kafka, left a blubbering, red mess, like the peach if it was ripe.

sniff…

the scent of ash and old paper lingers on the back of her hand, as well as a patch of scuff where the flame had left a burn on her skin.

“you burnt another manuscript today.” himeko points out, disappointedly. “i keep telling you, not just as your friend but as assistant editor, your work is more than good enough for the steambird.”

over many years of writing, loving writing, living for writing, kafka is still prone to bouts of writer’s block, and worse, with it bouts of self-hatred and self-deprecation.

…funnily enough, her wrists would also stop producing silk.

“and to top it off…” himeko whispers, faux-lovingly, gently rubbing her thumb in a circle along kafka’s wrists. “you’ve rendered yourself impotent again, haven’t you?”

kafka quickly draws her arm back, her ears pink. “miss himeko, have you no shame?”

“you have too much.” himeko complains. “you could stand to be a bit more shameless—you’ve burnt all your greatest work.”

“all i would’ve become is a laughingstock.” kafka scoffs, rolling her eyes. “a jew and a transvestite and a bugman.”

“you—” himeko glares at her, then sighs in defeat. “oh shush. no more of those words. especially not bugman.”

“yes, yes exactly, darling—no more words. precisely. no more of this impossible task.”

himeko frowns. “i’m not humoring your attempts at hating yourself. just promise me you’ll write. perhaps you’ll be able to get some inspiration tonight.”

kafka blinks. “tonight? what’s tonight?”

“oh, kafka, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” himeko flicks her nose with a brush of her hand. “come, we’re already late.”

there are stars overhead, and the fall is ever-so-imminent yet so, so far. there is so much impulse behind the motion of the fall, but it is so slow that she seems to be falling forever.

there is so much time before the fall. the world, still, like you and himeko, like pen and paper.

like the stars, which seem to sway with you as you traverse the land but in truth never move from their fixed positions.

and she smiles at you.

that’s the last thing she does. teasingly, defiantly, brilliantly. an ever-so-subtle twitch in the corner of her lips like the first etchings of a laugh, as if despite everything, she finds humor in the situation.

is it a measure of her confidence in you? does she believe even now that you will be able to catch her?

or does she smile because she doesn’t want you to think she’s scared?

does she smile because she knows if she lets even the ghost of fear play on her lips it will haunt you forever?

or is it the wind rustling against her ears, ruffling her hair? does she smile because in her last moments she finds the weightlessness of free fall to be delightful?

does she smile because the fall sets her free?

2 hours before the fall.

the world’s fair this year is set in prague. the city awash in brilliant lights, countless spinning steel structures adorned with mirrors and lightbulbs which glitter like silver seem to bring the city square to life. the exhibit employs tricks of architecture and illusionism to visually transform the buildings, accompanied by the loud groaning of iron and rhubarb, into giant soldiers which seem to march off into the distance, trudging along towards the horizon yet making no progress at all.

well, supposedly.

“i don’t see it.” himeko complains. “what am i even supposed to write about?”

anything she would like on sundays, himeko had said, and she chooses work. typical.

“if i squint i can kind of see it?” kafka mutters, trying really hard to convince her own eyes to fall for the optical illusion. “maybe you can tell your readers to squint really hard when they come to the exhibit.”

“i think i should tell them not to come.” himeko sighs. “even vienna was better.”

the two look at each other, then laugh. yeah, right.

the world’s fair in vienna, dubbed the hunters of nature exposium, had been a freakshow of genetically-modified, weapons-grade predatory creatures, each of them a disaster waiting to happen, with the only security measure being glass cages that were far too thin. a forum for self-congratulatory eugenicists to pat themselves and each other on the back for how great they’d become at playing god… until, of course, in a terrible twist of events that absolutely everyone saw coming, things went horribly wrong and almost all of the dangerous creatures escaped.

“no, seriously, though.” himeko groans. “‘the spectacular walking city of el misterio’ my ass. where’s the spectacle?”

kafka shakes her head. “after last time i don’t know that a spectacle would be a good thing.”

“please. at least the spider that bit you was an actual marvel of european science. this is just some architect—stage magician—on an ego trip.”

kafka shakes her head. “next you’ll say i’m a marvel of eugenics.”

himeko flicks kafka’s nose, laughing. “of all the things to come of eugenics, i can safely say you are the best.”

“perhaps.” kafka complains. “let’s just hope i don’t get bitten by a building this time—”

“wait, shush.” himeko whispers, stopping kafka dead in her tracks with a palm over her mouth.

“listen. do you hear that…?”

tick. 

tick… tick…

from a height of almost 70 meters it takes a little more than 7 seconds for an object in free fall to hit the floor.

on this particularly dry and cloudless night you learn that the length of 7 seconds is slow enough to count the strands of her hair.

slow enough to count the specks of brown in her amber eyes.

slow enough to name all the stars and constellations reflected in her lapel.

slow enough to wonder if you could’ve leapt after her and caught her in your arms, slow enough to wonder if you could’ve saved her.

slow enough to wonder—

if she could speak, what would she have said?

if you had more time before the fall, what would you have said to her?

there are so many words left unsaid. if only there was more time. you need all the time—and a thousand times more than all the time. and if possible all the time that exists.

for you.

to think of you. to breathe in you.

i wish i could’ve looked after you.

you close your eyes. you can’t watch. because you know how it ends.

after all, there can only be one outcome.

i wish i could’ve caught you.

she is long dead before the fall.

some years ago, the buzzing of a fruitfly.

juliet—franziska’s mother—paces the kitchen, unease in her footsteps. herman, her husband, sits at the table shuffling cards for a game of poker. a peach rots in a basket placed on the dining table.

the mother asks: where could he have gone?

the father mutters rigidly: he’ll be fine. stop worrying.

the mother, paying him no mind and still hysteric with worry: franz?

and, sat on a third chair, across from hermann, franziska. she responds, slowly:

mother…? mother, i’m right here.

even to utter the words is a heavy ordeal—her lips stick together as if her mouth is full of rotten fruit.

the mother’s pacing slows. she turns towards franziska, but stares right past her, her eyes blown out and out of focus.

franz? she asks, still gazing into the far distance. son? where could you be?

mother, i’m right—

an itch on her forearm, maybe the fruitfly. kafka mindlessly slaps her palm against the itch, and when she looks down she is horrified to see that she has transformed into—

...somewhere amidst the ringing in her ears, the crackling of fires.

the teenaged franziska kafka wakes with an intense ringing in her ears, an unease in her stomach, an unbearable, crushing pressure against her chest. a spot on her forearm sends unbearable pulses of shock all throughout her body, louder than her heartbeat in a venomous, dizzying stinging sensation, and for a second she can’t see—she wonders if she’s dead.

she breathes to find her lungs full of asbestos and concrete dust. as the pulsing in her forearm starts to subside, the ringing in her ears gets quieter and quieter, the world clearer and clearer, awash in burning red. 

“…kafka?” a shaky, crying, panicked voice, calling her name. “kafka, where are you? please tell me you’re okay—”

gathering all the leftover strength she has, kafka punches through the pile of bricks crushing against her with one of her arms, clawing, reaching past it, hoping himeko will see.

“kafka!? is that you? wake up, we need to get out of here…”

the flame-haired teenager, crying and tugging against her arm.

himeko and kafka are students at adjoining girls’ and boys’ boarding schools. they had barely vaguely recognized each other before they had been paired up for the joint class trip. now the two of them are buried under a mound of rubble, surviving with barely any room to breathe thanks to the exposed rhubarb structure holding its shape under the concrete.

“miss himeko… i had the worst dream just now.” kafka mutters dazedly. she coughs, and the taste of steel immediately sinks into the back of her throat. “i was… some sort of bugman. awful… awful dream…”

she spits, a gunked-up clot of phlegm and snot and blood splattering against the dirt.

“oh. well,” himeko says, a little dumbly. “that’s not great. how many fingers am i holding up?”

“eleven? no.” kafka blinks. “three?”

“oh dear.” himeko’s quivering voice is flush with worry. “i’m not holding up any fingers. you must have a concussion.”

kafka groans. “that’s got to be cheating.”

the screeching of a lizard. the mound of concrete between the two of them and the outside world, which is now starting to seem more like a protective barricade than a tomb burying them alive, starts to shudder and crumble.

a splitting headache, and an unbearable tingling in the pit of her stomach, screaming, screaming that danger is approaching.

“actually i think i do have a concussion,” kafka breathes. “i… something’s wrong…”

paying no mind to kafka’s groaning, himeko picks up a broken pipe with her arms, shaking from fatigue.

“i took six months of judo before i quit. should be enough, right?” himeko musters hoarsely, through gritted teeth.

she shoots kafka her best attempt at a reassuring smile, which isn’t reassuring at all, because judo seems to have little to do with using the pipe to defend yourself. “i’ll protect you, franz kafka.”

danger, the tingling crawling sensation along the skin of kafka’s body screams louder and louder—

“miss himeko—!”

a giant lizard claw punches its way through the rubble.

the pipe clatters to the ground.

and kafka, her body having moved on its own in spite of the crushing pain against her chest, steps in front of himeko, having stopped the claw dead in its tracks with her bare hands.

“hah…” kafka breathes, exhaustedly. she coughs out some more blood. she closes her eyes, and with all her might, grabs hold of the claw and slams it against the ground, making the lizard screech and howl in pain.

the creature shudders the earth as it slinks away. kafka glances back to see himeko, wide-eyed and beautiful.

“what…” she mouths. “what are you…?”

kafka shoots himeko a shaky, reassuring, smile like the one she’d received from her mere moments ago.

“i’m… i’m… i don’t… know.”

when she faints again, she falls into himeko’s arms, and sleeps a dreamless sleep.

no… no no…

himeko.

kafka is too late.

she leaps down, and the tingling in her stomach must be broken, because there’s nothing. for the first time since the world’s fair in vienna, the world has gone completely, utterly, silent.

she can’t even hear the sound of her own voice, even though she’s sure she must be screaming, sobbing:

—miss himeko…!

himeko’s hands are cold.

that can’t be. her hands are never cold.

no no no… please… please tell me you’re okay. please wake up. please. let’s get out of here.

kafka takes a hand and presses it against her cheek nonetheless, hoping, desperately hoping that she’ll find that her fingers were mistaken and they’ll be warm against her face, like always, like yesterday, and earlier today. there’s still a smile on her lips, as if any moment now she’d burst out with laughter like this had been some sick joke of hers. as if she’d take her fingers and wipe the tears from kafka’s cheeks, reassuring her that she’s okay, that she’ll be okay. and kafka would agree, tears welling up in her eyes:

you’re okay. you’ll be okay. you’ll…

and himeko would weakly soothe the writer from her babbling. i’ll be okay.

—but now not another word, she would sigh out. only kisses.

because it’s a sunday.

she snaps from her fantasy when her hairs stand on end. silent, ghastly footsteps lightly tread the foot of the tower, making no sound but in soft waves of cool air crawling up her skin.

the curtain of shadows fall away from the pallid face of the magician and architect who lay in wait underneath the clockwork, her eyes dim.

“fascinating.” she notes, examining a strand of silk hanging from a cog above her. “the tensile strength of your webbing is incredible. unfortunately so, because she was dead before she hit the floor, from the whipl—”

with a single thwip the pistol is snatched from the woman’s holster and, with a deafening gunshot, a hole appears square in the center of the architect vill-v’s chest and she slumps over, dead.

the clock tower strikes twelve.

[canon event asm-122: the spider fails to prevent the death of their first love.]

a dry and cloudless night. time slows like breathing before the fall.

click! tick… tick…

as if it lies in anticipation of the fate of its original owner, the silver pocketwatch seems to still its own heartbeat.

11:56:12. three minutes and forty seconds before the fall.

it was many years ago now that kafka had read a story about a guilty man sentenced to the task of rolling a boulder up a hill—a simple task, it initially appears, yet when the boulder finally approaches the apex of the hill, it starts—in defiance of all the man’s strength—tumbling back towards the foot of the hill, returning itself and the man to the point at which the task started.

a bitter smile trickles the corner of kafka’s lips. if himeko had been sat next to her in that literature class, she definitely would’ve leaned over to call it stupid. she had still felt the same when one particularly depressing evening of being unable to write anything good, she had described to himeko the story.

so? what’s your point?

i think the point is that there’s no point, miss himeko. i cannot write but i am trapped in the task of writing. this is meaningless.

himeko had rolled her eyes. shut up, kafka.

…

when grief washes the world of its colors, it is a sorely similar feeling to finding yourself once again at the foot of the hill.

when it is called “loss” it is not only because the person is gone, but because she takes with her a part of you. no, it is more accurate to say that you have built yourself around her companionship as a sustaining principle, and when she departs it—everything that you once called yourself you—all comes crashing tumbling to the ground, burying you underneath a pile of unusable scraps with no clear instruction on how to rebuild, not without her.

the only way to cope with the loss, to move on, and move forward is to deceive yourself into believing that a world without her exists in which you can rebuild, live with the lie that it is possible, maybe not for a long time but still possible, for you to live a life where she isn’t there.

the lie sustains itself on the principle that time, and growth, and life is linear, unlike the boulder and the hill, that one step after the other will tread a path and at the end of the path there is indeed an end, rather than a devastating return. this is the despicable lie called “hope,” and it is better to leave it behind.

after all, to reduce her to nothing but a fond bygone memory, to fill the hole in your chest, is to seal the tomb on her for the final time.

instead kafka lights a cigarette. a sip of cold air to soothe the hole in her chest, a drag of cinders to cauterize it. she breathes in and out a couple more times to satisfy the ache.

tick.

himeko’s old pocketwatch, a memento from her father, ticks 11:57: the minute-hand is now only three steps from its origin.

in their infinite hubris humanity thought it could capture the whole of time and hold it in the palm of your hand. the tragedy lies in the fact that to accomplish such a feat they had to admit that hope—the idea that time moves in a linear path rather than in a desperate circle—is a lie. it’s funny: such a careful and delicate creation contains within it a truth that devastates all attempt at aspiration, and we all carry one in our pockets.

after all, when the clock strikes 12:00 on a dry and cloudless night, murata himeko will fall to her death.

three minutes left until the fall.

she puts out the cigarette, digging it into smooth and bare skin.

“tell me how to stop it.” she demands, nonchalantly, letting the pocketwatch fall along its chain from the palm of her hand into her pocket. she flicks the burnt-out cigarette with the fingers of the same hand, drumming fingers along the trigger of a pistol with the other.

“please… i don’t know anything.” quivers the tinkerer vill-v, pressing herself harder and harder against the cold brick walls of the building, fear flooding into her pink-and-grey eyes, the soft, pale, moonlike skin of her chest beautifully stained with a wine-colored burn. “i’m just the science teacher here…”

kafka cocks the hammer with her thumb. “five.”

“if it’s money you need all i have is in my pockets please please just take it—i don’t have much…”

“four.”

“i’m—i’m on parole.” vill-v’s panicked rambling starts to accelerate. “i’ve been g—good. i promise i didn’t do anything bad, i p—promise…”

“three.”

“please…” tears start to stream down vill-v’s chin onto the cold metal of the barrel of the pistol, her nose and cheeks flushed rosy with the breath of winter.

—kafka, don’t kill her—!

“i know what i’m doing.” she silences her earpiece with her free hand, her eyes on her prey. “two.”

vill-v’s voice quivers with desperation. “just tell me what you want… i’ll do any… any… thing…”

her words trail into a calm, as her pink-and-gray eyes slow to a still. her demeanor shifts, slowly, as a deathly chill seems to descend over the night.

the tinkerer takes a slow breath, and a sniff, wiping her dry tears and the tip of her nose with the back of her free hand, the other webbed up against the brick. she smirks.

“—heh. stalled you.”

KABOOM!

in the distance, the clock tower bursts into flames.

haah… hah…

all you can think about is the sound of her disappointed sigh, and a flick of your forehead that hurts a little too much.

“late again.”

ow—! miss himeko…

“i’ll let you off easy this time.” himeko would always say, a smirk at the corner of her lips. “take a seat.”

no… no no no…. no…

murata himeko falls to her death as the wooden scaffolds of the clock tower, burnt brittle, give way underneath her feet.

and, at the foot of the tower…

you’re late again. her hands are already starting to get cold—they’re never cold.

…himeko..! i’m sorry… i’m so sorry… oh… no no…

a pool of blood around your knees. the weak curl of fingers around your own and a bitter, cough. as the light starts to leave her shimmering golden eyes, the corner of her mouth twitches in an attempt at a smirk.

you already know what the look on her face means—she’s telling you to shut up.

you stop your blubbering.

himeko blinks slowly, as if she means to say good girl.

hah… she breathes slowly, as if there’s no more oxygen left in the world. hah…

try not to talk… you try to put on the most convincing smile you have. you’ll be okay. you’ll really… really be okay.

she tries to shake her head, but her cheek falls to the wayside to lay on yuur thigh, her throat stuttering.

it’s… she stutters out hoarsely. it’s okay.

you can only watch as the last of himeko’s strength is spent on her arms, as she reaches out to hold your cheeks with her cold fingers.

and when she passes, she smiles. her last words are a breathless sigh.

be brave, ki… a… na.

[canon event af-15: with great power...]

the spider-girl kiana kaslana chokes back her spit as her heart shatters into pieces, her chin glistening with dry, sticky sweat mixed with tears that won’t stem. and when she can’t hold it back anymore—even though her aunt himeko wanted her to be brave, to be quiet, to not wail in anguish—kiana clutches himeko against her chest, feeling the warmth fade from her bare skin, and cries into the night.

and hidden away in the shadows is himeko’s lover from another world, with bated breath, careful not to make any sudden movements.

sleep, my love. for I sleep less than most. and I can’t think of a better place to store my unused share of universal sleep than in your beloved eyes.

elio. she whispers, tapping her earpiece. i couldn’t stop it.

the buzzing of the earpiece. kafka… i really don’t know—

kafka cuts off the transmission, muttering to herself:

again.

“you smell like gun oil.” comments silver wolf, dryly. “and smoke.”

“good to see you too, hacker bunny.” kafka greets her colleague with the same dry humor. “and thank you. i picked it out myself.”

silver wolf ticks a brow, not taking her eyes off the game. “the gun oil?”

“my cologne.” kafka groans, throwing her jacket onto her office desk. “where’s coffee?”

bronya shoots a glance at kafka’s office desk, with cans of empty instant coffee strewn about messily. she turns back to the game, mashing her spacebar. “you drank it all.”

“figures.” kafka yawns. “when do we restock?”

“the sooner you stop, the better, you know.” says silver wolf simply, not taking her eyes off her game.

“excuze? it’s just caffeine, live a little.”

“i know what you’re trying to do.” silver wolf mutters. “it won’t work.”

“won’t it now?” asks kafka, amused.

“fate is like a stab wound. the more you struggle against it, the deeper you bore the hole. it’s self harm is what it is. and…”

her eyes seem to sparkle with more color than usual, and the clacking of her keyboard quieter. “even if you do save her, it won’t mean that you get her back. she won’t be your himeko.”

“romantic.” kafka muses. “you should write, bronya.”

bronya blinks. “romantic, you say. watching her die, over and over again, for the rest of your life, with no way to stop it, no matter how much you try, and even if you do stop it, you have to see her fall in love with someone else. i never pegged you as a masochist as much as much as a sadist. do you enjoy being a cuckhold, kafka?”

“a sadist, hm..? where’d you get that… impression…”

kafka notices the flowers at silver wolf’s desk, puffs of azure in curls of white seafoam.

“…those are new.” she muses. “do you miss her, bronya?”

bronya looks away, mumbling.

“that’s a stupid question.”

c’mon, no need to raise your hands now. himeko had said to the nervous classroom. there are no stupid questions, only stupid students who miss out on participation—ah, yes. kiana.

the girl asks her teacher what she would have done if she was the man rolling the boulder up the hill.

himeko cracks up, because she’s never been asked that question before. then, jokingly, she replies, well, for starters, i’d have to get to know the rock, wouldn’t i? or else i would be very lonely. anyway…

and kafka, leaning against the outside of the school building, listening into the conversation through a crack of the windows, lets out a stifled nose-laugh.

this is a very good question, kiana, because in 1942 the writer albert camus said… he said…

himeko stutters to a stop as if she’d noticed a familiar presence outside. she glances outside the window, to see only the rustling of leaves.

huh.

she smiles. probably just a trick of the light.

it was the very last thing she did. murata himeko, falling to her death in a dry and cloudless night, smiled at her.

kafka had never understood why, until now.

just promise me you'll write. perhaps you'll be able to get some inspiration tonight.

“the knife i twist inside my heart…” kafka murmurs to herself.

an eyebrow is raised. "...did you say something?" in her arms, under the golden light of the ballroom, a masked stranger with golden eyes to match and hair aflame.

kafka laughs it off. "it's nothing. shall we?"

"take me."

they just met this evening.

another three hours before the fall. they dance a waltz, one foot after another, falling into a sway that is strangely, so strangely, familiar. a knife in her chest.

that’s you.

that’s love.

kafka laughs because she finally understands why she has it easier than the man.

after all, she is spared the task of having to get to know the rock.

the rock is the knife in her heart, the love of her life, of many lives.

and with you in my heart, i can bear anything.