The whine of a siren woke Greta and chased the dreams from her mind. She pulled at them fiercely, knew they were important, but they fled and she was left with memories instead: slapping raw fingers against frozen glass until the old man answered; he knew her grandmother, following the red-orange burning cigarette to a dressing room painted green, a yellow fluorescent that soured Greta's skin and stomach.
Then words, hours of words, a book of words, and only the tiniest sliver of a life.
She'd come home through the cold and dark to a colder, darker apartment. Distracted, she'd watched roaches scurry across the blue rectangle of light from the window and crawled into am unfamiliar corner to hide.
Now Greta pulled herself from the corner, encased in the cocoon of her comforter, but uncomforted.
For a moment, she stood before the one window, then she raised it and leaned out. When she opened her eyes against the wind, Greta found a woman staring up at her from the alley below. She held papers in her hands and words in her eyes, Greta thought. For a moment, the woman held Greta's startled gaze, the she moved down the alley.
Greta withdrew inside. She had some sorting to do: of belongings, purposes, emotions, memories.
