The next day, I showed up at the park at the same time. There were several people there, walking their dogs, jogging, keeping watch over their children on the swings, but I did not see her.

I sat down on the same bench she’d occupied the day before and waited. Five minutes passed. I watched as a squirrel clambered down the withered trunk of a nearby tree, its small nose twitching with curiosity. It observed me with black, intelligent eyes. It apparently decided I wasn’t a threat, for it inched towards my left shoe and sniffed it. Then it scampered away, rustling the brown leaves.

Ten minutes passed. I was starting to wonder if I’d made her up inside my head. Fifteen minutes passed. It became glaringly obvious that she wasn’t going to show.

Just as I was about to leave, I heard footsteps. Suddenly, she stood before me. Her hair was loose today, cascading in midnight-black waves down her shoulders. It only made her green eyes shine all the brighter.

“Good,” she said. “You’re here. You pass the first test.”