The Graveyard of the Flying Machines Part VII

He saw her mouth moving and heard something, but could make out no words. It sounded like a small and wee version of the oxen’s mute bellows. Except it sounded reversed, as though she were inhaling the words.

Morgan shook his head to show this. She tried again. He could tell she was pouring everything she had into it. Still it was only that small, distant sigh.

Morgan shook his head again. A look of frustration came upon her and she sagged. She looked back up at him. Her hand snaked out and she laid her fingers upon his cheek. Her touch was dry, not quite warm, and light, like the skittering legs of a fly. She held them there for a moment that stretched to infinity and looked to be considering some unpleasant course. Then, she lowered her hand.

The look of frustration left and utter childish misery replaced it. She slumped to her rear, hugged her knees, rocked in silent, tearless weeping. Morgan reached out to her. She shrank away, jumped up, and ran back into the dark. He followed her, but she was gone.

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