There is a woman in our attic. I do not think my parents know. She cannot be seen most of the time, but sometimes the motes gather in the sunlight and she is there, all sparkly and beautiful.
She terrifies me.
Not that she ever threatens me. She never does anything other than float below the window, looking up at the sky. But when I see her, I wonder why she is here, why she has not gone on to somewhere else, and I wonder what she is looking for.
And I am afraid that she might be dead. And I am afraid that she is waiting for the end of the world where the sky will burn, so that she can be released. And I am afraid that she is praying for it.
If she asked anything of me, I would give it to her.