On the slope above the stream the village glowed as though the night had been corrected too zealously, every window carrying a color like a stamp that would not fade. The houses stood in their decent order, neither welcoming nor cruel, only busy with some task that excluded us. He held my hand—not to lead me, but to keep our number the same—while the path, white and obedient, pretended to know where it was going.
The trees kept their small lights as if counting something we could not see. Even the stairs, patient and many, repeated themselves until they began to sound like a rule. We spoke quietly so that no sentence would resemble a decision. The air was kind, almost warm, yet it passed through our coats without noticing there were bodies inside.
I thought of knocking on a door, any door, but the colors at the windows were already speaking with one another, and it seemed impolite to interrupt. He said we could not stay long; the night keeps strict accounts. Above us a few stars took attendance. I felt them hesitate at my name.
We stood still until our shadows matched, then smaller than them, and finally nothing but the pressure of our hands. When we turned, the path had memorized our steps and asked for them back. We returned them, one by one, carefully.
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