THE WORLD GOT SMALLER. DURING those days, as the sun paled and the evenings got cold and the wind more forsaken at night, I was paralyzed by my fear of leaving Olga and Helena alone. I feared using the bathroom, I listened to every sound; a muted voice drifting from the street or the screaming of the cats turned into a confession. We still ate our breakfast in the garden, the mornings were the same, long and warm, but cold came with sunset and we moved inside to the little kitchen table for dinner, we lit candles, an intense, yellow light that made the shadows sharp and threatening, the air stiflingly warm, Helena: it’s almost like Christmas, we sat so close to each other around the small table that I could feel their breath, sour white wine and Olga’s sweet mouth.

I couldn’t go out alone anymore. I didn’t dare. One day I realized I would never do it again, I would never wander as I had, without destination or purpose other than to pass the time while waiting for someone to want something from me, want me. I had seen everything I would see. I knew the end was drawing near.

The world got bigger one morning when Helena said: it’s almost October, can you believe it? The months slammed into me, the year that was happening without me. Without us. This was a lost time. This was happening somewhere else. I felt nauseated when I heard her say “October.”