She is fleeing her back turned to me. The black corset is cutting the softness of her silhouette. She has no shape of her own just her clothe so I believe she is a ghost. The alley is so green and opens up to the moors and its reddish fur. On one side the dry stone wall on the other the high hedge, both higher than her.
She will reach the portal soon and make the rust sing as her body will morph into it.
She is plain almost translucent. No edges no cutting except the dark corset with crisscrossing laces in soft satin. No flesh to touch, limpidity of body and thoughts.
Only one place to flee.
Away from me.
Fading away need convincing. Regrets need memory.
She is the chime resonating in the distance.
I can’t let her go.
(Chateau La Coste, Puy Ste Reparade)