It was like a dream. It was like something floating in the rushing river, drifting and fluttering in the heart, to the abyss of the ocean, burying in the mud, in the slime of the darkness, observing by the most horrifying monsters, creatures. It was like some vicious and wicked treasure in the ancient forest, with poisoned snakes, slimy frogs, barbed plants, and misty, white fogs. It was known; It was forgotten.

It was a mundane girl in a mundane high school, a girl who would lose in the crowd without even leaving a single ripple. She had no characteristics, no stories, and no personalities, as if she deliberately reduced her presence, trying to be a transparent person in the class. She always worn a scruffy but neat clothes, with a colorless backpack and glasses with thin lenses, sitting in the corner of the classroom, without any expression on her comely face. No one would talk with her, even though I’ve been going to and from school with her for three years, I knew nothing about her.

It was like a wild fire, a rumor, rushing through the classroom, the playground, the small town. It appeared in the void, carrying the depth of evil, the depth of humanity. It was said that she was a thief, a robber, stealing others belongings, migrating the souls of the wondering ghosts. Fallacy and absurd burn across the plain, discussions and censure rushing across the world, carrying the knifes, the forks towards the shabby cabin of her yard. Apple core, old clothes and chalks appeared around her, in her school bag, her pocket and her small wooden house. 

Expected changes did not take place. She was still submerged in the ocean of loneliness and impotence, calling, struggling, trying to find a small raft, dragging out an ignorant existence. Still wearing a dress in chaste gray, even without an impurity; still covering her comely face with an emotionless mask; still facing the fatuous crowded, discussing, laughing heartless. On her way back home, the sharp blade cut her back and blood splattered under her feet. Arrows cutting the wind, shouting crossing the air, but she turned her face to Grandma and her back to the world, and still smiling.

I still stood aside, drawing a clear barrier between the crowded, neither talked to her nor did such things to her. The blood, the cruelty grew behind her face, her gray dress, taking a place in the deepest part of her soul, in the most inscrutable and inhumane way. Something was lost, something was dead, I, she, everyone.

It was an afternoon, and I was waiting on the side of a railroad, waiting for the train to pass by. The bell ringing, but there was a black cat, chasing by fear from the fellow children, sitting in the middle of the railroad. No one moved, no one talked, as if there wasn’t a shiny and lovely creature sitting in the middle of a giant grinder. The crowd was in silent, waiting for the judge, the accident happening on the poor creature. 

A gray mist burst out of the crowd with a gust of wind. I looked back: her bike was on the ground, her bag was lying, and her books were scattered all over the floor. Running along the dirt road, the natural aroma of grass and flowers filled the air, and her gray dress danced in the air as if out of the shackles of gravity. I still remember her hairpin with flowers, the uncombed, flowing long hair, the simple cloth shoes and the faint fragrance of the hair. 

She crouched down, in the sound of the bell, accompanied by the frightened eyes of the people, and hugged the small, black, bruised kitten, like a savior. She looked back one last time with calm eyes, and with all her strength, amid the rumbling of the train, pushed the kitten into the weeds behind her.

My thought went blank. I closed my eyes, listening to the screeching brakes, the whispering crowd, and accepting the smell of grass mixing with blood creeping into my nose. The angel fell to the ground, crushing into mud, flying to the other world with her dreaming cat, a world without rumors, without pain, without blood, without death.

Her small body lying on the ground, with blood dying the dirt, like a crimson wintersweet blossoming its beauty in the white snow. There wasn’t blood on her face, smiling, with closing eyes, and a small cat, circling around her body, meowing and scrapping her body, anxiously. 

My brain stopped working since the regrettable afternoon. People passing by the railroads days after days, not even noticing her demure body, as if nothing happened in the small town. Everyone was silent. The world seems losing its memory, and would never stop working due to an accident of a spare part. 

My life went on as usual, peaceful as water, tranquil as the azure sky. I graduated from middle school, from high school, and finally went to work, far away from my hometown, from the railroad, from the shattered cabin. Only all is quiet at the dead of night, I could remember a life, a vivifying life, disappeared forever in the crimson of the wintersweet. I remembered everything: she was forgotten.No one would remember the flying dandelions.