She entered the room for the nameless dead. The moment I saw her, from
where I sat by the window sill, I knew her. We had never met. But her
presence bore the same aura of the voice that spoke to me earlier. The voice
whose speaker I couldn't see. She had come to identify me, give me a name
and place me among the named dead. She lingered at the entrance for a
while, worry painting its wrinkled brush across her brow. Then she walked
briskly to the metal table where my corpse lay. I watched her from the corner
of the dim-lighted room. She kept muttering to herself: "But I warned you.
Didn't I? Why did you ignore my warning? Why?"
Her eyes grew misty, her voice tightening.
Who was she? Why would she weep for me? How did she know? How? How?
I started walking toward her. She tensed, looked in my direction and drew
back toward the door. She couldn't see me. But she could sense a presence.
My presence.
"Wait," I beseeched.
She turned and fled.