Auburn hair, seemingly freed from the chains of gravity flows through the warm summer air.


Gerrit sat at the small folding table, wide awake even though it's well past midnight. He managed to hide from the sorrow well enough during the days, but at night when there was nothing but the sounds of Sacramento's nightlife and his memories, his mind kept going back to her.


The sound of drums - or rather: the sound of a plastic pickle tub, a metal lid and an overturned bucket.


Memories, he came to realize, were a double-edged sword. Without them, he would never have found the way back through the Hedge, wouldn't have been able to find the will to escape. Now however they only reminded him of what he has lost and kept him awake at night.


Over the smell of sweat and exhaust there is a hint of blueberry. It's a promise of laughter, of carelessness, and of brighter days.


It's during his nightly trips down memory lane when his apartment didn't seem like a Winter-approved, sparsely furnished temporary place to live but like an empty testament to his loneliness. But if you're so keen on Winter's ideals, why don't you finally let her go and stop letting your sorrow weigh you down? Yes, he'd have to work on that, but this seemed to be a thought befitting the daytime. At night, Gerrit would indulge in this bittersweet pain for a little while longer.


It's a warm day in June and Gerrit is on his way home from the station. He's tired, but he's content with the work he's done. A few blocks away he hears a rhythmic drumming and further down the street he sees the artist and his makeshift drum set set up on the sidewalk. The musician is young and even though he seems to be homeless, there's a certain joy in his movements and the music just flows out of him into his improvised instrument.
He's good. On a whim, Gerrit decides to throw a few bucks into the small can standing before the boy. Without missing a beat, the drummer nodded and picked up the pace.
Suddenly, a young woman emerges from the sea of pedestrians. She seems to be a bit younger than Gerrit - probably around her early twenties and God, she is beautiful. For a few moments, she listens to the rhythm, gets in synch with the music.
Then she starts dancing.
Carefully at first, moving her feet and hips to every fourth, then second beat but quickly matching the musician's speed in some latin-esque dance. Her hair and the loose summer dress float around her, somehow creating a weightless counterpoint to her fast moving body. Her perfume - something fruity, maybe blueberry - fills her impromptu stage and a small crowd gathers around the drummer and her. The music gets even faster and she follows, an airless laughter bursting out while still filling every beat with a nimble step, turn or pose. Then the music stops and the crowd breaks out into cheers and applause, filling up the small cup in front of the boy. She's out of breath, but this doesn't affect her beauty in the slightest. And she's smiling at him.
It's not long until the crowd realizes that this has been a one-time gig and just like that they're all back on their way leaving a muse, an artist and a dumbstruck firefighter behind.
She's still smiling at him and God, she is beautiful.


Gerrit sighed. She was gone, left behind in a city far away, sharing her laughter and her home with an impostor. What was left now is a clean slate and his pain.
With that thought, he finally went to bed.