It’s a beautiful day outside. You stand in the middle of a field of yellow flowers. The light wind feels comforting, softly blowing against your skin. It’s not too hot outside. It’s cold enough to wear a sweater, but not so cold that you need one. You feel the slight warmth of the sunlight on the top of your head. You breathe in deeply. Fresh air. You breathe in again, just as deeply. Fresh air. You understand why you are here. You know you have never been here before. You feel just fine.
You feel the presence of something else.
You look behind you. There is someone you don’t recognize, standing in the field. They look just like you. They appear unsettled by something. They appear afraid of something. They appear weakened by something. They appear nostalgic about something. They appear to have remembered something. They appear to be confused about something. They appear angry about something. They appear tired of something. They appear to have remembered something. They appear sad about something. They appear to be thinking about something.
There is someone you don’t recognize, standing in the field.
You think about them approaching you. You don’t understand why you thought this. You approach their body. They start talking to you, in a strange voice you’ve never heard before. They tell you their name. They tell you they know you. They tell you they’ve been here before. They tell you you’ve been here before. They tell you the bird song repeats itself. They tell you the flowers are always yellow. They tell you the sun always rises. They tell you the temperature is always the same. They tell you how it feels. They tell you about the pain. They tell you about their joy. They tell you about a dream. They tell you about a distant memory. They tell you about the future. They tell you about themselves. They tell you it’s going to end one day. They tell you they don’t understand what that means. They tell you about another feeling. They tell you about something. They tell you about something else. They tell you about the world, and everything in it, and everything they know, and everything they don’t. They tell you for hours. They tell you for a year. They tell you for five years. They tell you for ten years. They tell you for twenty years. They tell you for another three months and twenty-seven days, before stopping to pause. You aren’t sure how long it has been. They tell you they don’t understand.
You tell them you don’t understand either.
They start to cry.
They cry, and keep crying. Tears run down their face. Nothing else changes. They crumple to the ground, and curl their body up into a strange position. They keep crying.