Perhaps the road did end up somewhere. I see it now, in the grainy
photograph she took, bending away on the southern coast of Sweden;
telephone posts linked with slack wire disappearing into the countryside
where the road turns to tufted dunes.

I hear her saying — This road leads home, commenting on shadow and
shadow turning into each other. I see her running carefree along a wild
stretch of sand, her body in full stride, the wind forcing back her hair - her
mouth caught shouting something to the camera.

Now another road leads and bends into evening. It is autumn, we decide to
take a walk. I turn to you, lost in thought - she's not here, but you are -
running in full stride, the motion streaming back your hair. I forget then start
to chase you. Your laughter, our full-on laughter.