Sometimes… when the streets are quiet again in the late morning hours, she imagines the curious incidences around the people in flat 15A (with a capital A because that is how they label the small places between the buildings of grandeur in town). Above the library.
She likes it when the old man in her imagination slips through a secret trap door opening exactly between the shelves for ‘aeroplanes’ and ‘agriculture’. Or, in a more romantic mood, a young blind man from the flat walking aimlessly through the aisles, with his guide dog. He cannot read yet becomes a part of something greater in this very moment. He never stays for long but that’s his magic, she knows.
The flat was empty for many years and probably it is so this very moment.
Still, she has quietly fallen for what has never been.
Exactly this place to only be.
