A knot in my stomach formed, reminded me of the cherry stalks she would tie in knots with her tongue.
I’d found myself in her room, so eerie and quiet without her in it. There were polaroids all over the walls, some of them curling with age. Polaroids of Paris, picnics and cherry blossoms in summertime. That’s how I’ll remember her.
I could still see her laughing so vividly, giggling between lines of poorly spoken French. Her nose used to wrinkle when she laughed.
I remember her, blushing when I called her “ma chérie.”
But most of all, I remember the sound of her music box. A pretty little tune that I felt like I’d heard before, long ago in a life I’d already lived.
When I lifted the lid, it had already been wound. The familiar tune replayed over and over on a loop, like a never ending thread. Pirouetting was the delicate ballerina inside.
When I concentrated I could make the dancer change direction with my mind. Clockwise, anti-clockwise, clockwise, anti-clockwise. If only I could manipulate time. If only I could make the clocks spin backwards, just so I could see her once more.
The tune seemed to last an eternity, until the room fell silent once again.
I could feel her ghost haunting me.
Ma cherie, ma cherie, ma cherie.