Epilogue
When my mind is silent, a door deep in my memory sometimes slides open to review a night long ago when I was just sixteen. My questions about the world had begun to whisper, and I went out on a dim evening for a walk. Out of habit, my feet followed the cobble path to the main road and up the hill to the bus stop. I wore my orange skirt and white sweater, the uniform of autumn, and was feeling like myself all the way (except for a slightly stuffy nose), weighing the indecision about where I was going, not just on that night but for all the days and nights ahead.
Sixteen years of life, it was then, each one tucked under and over to the edge. I was a paper fan without an inch left for the next fold. Where was the next sheet?
I now know this new sheet was the object of my search th
