The street lights had just wavered off, exhausted from a long night of labor. It was startling, almost, to the figure on the bridge. Wool wrapped around neck and hands and hair, she steadied her fluttering heart with a hand on the worn stone wall.
Pressing golden wisps into an open mouth, the wind spun up from the canal in silver strands. Bits of ice hitting and sticking to irises, quickly blinked away.
Between flashes of the blackness of eyelids, the shadows of dirt and grass and snow sleeping along the river below began to take shape.
What could have been a fallen tree warped into a torso, sticks into limbs, grass into hair.
With a gasp that coated her sight in vapor, the figure stumbled once more, an image of the abandoned body below charred into her retinas. Floating along the cobblestone, merging with the grime of the street, the illustration of death would not leave her.
Had anyone been around to hear her, they’d assume she was there to see his death.
But she was only a witness to the afterbirth.