FicWad

It is the winter of man, and the sky is so blue and cool, and we go hunting for our history outside of Esthar. We cannot leave Central without the guards, and neither of us wish that burden, so we leave without leaving, disappearing into the gardens and hoping noone will come looking for us. There are books strewn about us after an hour or two, and you are reciting something that I'm sure you created all on your own, just now, as we lie among the grass and the flowers and try to imagine: we are back in Deling City; we are back in Timber; we are back in Winhill, watching Ellone and Raine and the chocobos wandering in the fields that noone uses any more. We sleep, digging in our past, comforted by the things we've lost-everything, but each other.