Sarah couldn’t sleep. The holes in her memory were starting to widen and deepen, and she was falling through the attic floor of the Victorian house of her childhood. Things were slipping away out of focus, receding past her slowly down on a steep escalator. Or she was sliding down a landslide during a downpour, only mud beneath her and nothing like a tree branch to hold onto or someone’s hand.
Like Sonya, the Stone Angel of the Glass House of Forgetting, she was forgetting too much. Someone like Sonya had possessed all her memories but the roads to them had been destroyed by a misfiring of the brain’s neurons. There was a world that existed on a map of a place that could no longer be visited, just referred to as a blur, maybe sometimes a strange feeling of déjà vous. She was reminded while scanning a folded-over page, how scents such as the smell of perfume or shampoo on the page of a book a girl with very long hair was reading, The Stranger? Who wrote that short book? Who was that girl she loved?
The holes hurt more, so she left the library to walk alongside the Mediterranean. There she saw Ethan in the distance. Ethan so much older than she thought. She noticed his gray hair almost white. He was bent down looking for something in the sand. He was sifting handfuls through his hands like he always did. Ethan. He seemed peaceful, and she envied him that.