I’ve heard the story before, how this cousin came down from the city that summer to the village like a migratory bird, as was the custom in that time. How her hair was in plaits, as was the custom in that time. How they climbed the ladder to the hayloft, who knows why, but laughing, and how the cousin paused, one plait over her shoulder and the other hanging down her back, looking down and back at the others before continuing upwards, upwards. How the fever came that night, how it carried her away, how it took her somewhere far beyond villages and cities, goodnight, goodbye.

How the backward glance, now in memory, becomes full of meaning despite meaning nothing at the time. How that one look has outlived everything of this girl, poor migratory bird, forever flying now and never landing — how it outlived her and is all that is left of her in this world from which even her name has vanished.

This was a thing that happened, once.