It was always a fear of sliding away that kept her there. Bolted in the attic, shrouded in history – mystery? – like sands through the hour glass pouring, and Socrates blinks as the roof crumbles, as myth subsides into trivia.

Ah the whispers, they come by night. They slink into screaming by the time the sun arrives. By morning's end, it is a reverberation. Lost is a sense of privacy but regained by an inkling of absent jealousy – what should be there, what would be there, but the flowers gaze so happily at the sky that there is no telling when it will rise for her, and her alone.

She is not a person, but her hourglass figure is full.

Remembrance is a tried and true adventure, but only for the brave.