As I say these words I watch her hands. I guage her breathing. She remains impassive. The girl has guts. I think back to that evening, to the fact that she was there, in the rain. I would like to ask her about that phone call, why she didn’t come forward immediately, but I’m afraid of generating a closure, that she will leave without giving me explanations. She’s the one setting the rules of this game. That was clear from the outset. I am the scarecrow in the middle of the field, with a floppy hat and a crow on his shoulder.
"The message he wrote," I say to her, "seems like the farewell of someone who has decided to put an end to his existence, but, at the same time, there is something that doesn’t convince me."
"What message?"
"I will fly over the dross of a mutilated life, etcetera
