He gathers up all his notes and books, attempts to impose some kind of order on the sheaf, and then stacks them in a box that slid under his bed. He had stopped keeping them there, because he couldn’t sleep knowing her traces were buried under the bed, but he told himself it was only until his impending visitor had come and gone.
He spends the rest of the morning waiting by the window in the front room, where the house faced the distant town and city. Waits for them to come for him again.
Noon passes, and the clouds give up some thin sour sunlight. Nobody is coming. He can feel the pull of the fogou. He tries to remain settled by the windows, but his fingers twitch and his feet grow restless.
He finds himself at the back door, fighting his boots back on. He doesn’t remember leaving the window.
He finds himself trudging across the grounds, and doesn’t remember leaving the house.
The sunlight is yellow.
He approaches the fogou.
All the birds begin to scream at him.
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