Hitgalut: The Portrait of the Impossible

Stepping off the bus, I walked hurriedly to the Noah residence and pressed the doorbell. It didn’t take long for Mrs. Noah to open the door, flashing a welcoming smile: "Good afternoon, Bruce! We were biting our nails with anxiety to see these photos. Did everything go well in the lab?" "Yes, everything went great. The photos turned out amazing and your party was truly wonderful," I replied, trying to hide the nervousness in my voice. "But... I would like to ask you a question, if it's no trouble." "Yes, of course! Ask away, Bruce. What’s on your mind?" "There was a young woman at your party... and I really need to know who she is. Forgive me for being so direct and intrusive, but I found her extremely beautiful and, since that day at the farm, she simply hasn’t left my mind. If she is taken or if it's a sensitive matter and you don't want to talk, I will completely understand, I swear." Mrs. Noah let out a light laugh, the kind aunts give when they notice a young man in love: "Oh, Bruce! You were caught off guard by love, weren't you?" she teased, winking at me. "If I can help, I certainly will. You are a good guy and you deserve to be happy. Do you have a photo of her here to show me?" I opened the leather portfolio and pulled out the black-and-white print. I handed the photographic paper into her hands. The exact moment her eyes landed on the image, Mrs. Noah's smile vanished. Her features froze, turned pale, and an uncomfortable seriousness took over her face. Without looking away from the paper, she raised her voice to call her husband to the entrance: "Steven... Steven, come downstairs, please. I need you to see something." A cold chill ran through my stomach. I was genuinely frightened by that abrupt reaction. I imagined she could be a deceased relative, a troubled ex-girlfriend, or someone involved in a major family tragedy. My immediate urge was to grab my photos and run out of there as fast as possible; the fear of them thinking I was some crazy stalker was enormous. But I stood there, planted on the entryway rug, because the obsession with that girl was greater than my fear. Mr. Steven came down the stairs and approached the door. He looked at me with friendliness and greeted me with a calm nod. His wife, however, extended the photo toward him with slightly trembling hands: "Honey... do you know this girl? I have never seen her in my entire life." Steven took the photo, furrowed his brow, and analyzed the details of her face for a few seconds before looking up at me: "I’ve never seen this woman either, Bruce... Are you sure you didn't mix up the rolls of film and end up developing a photo of an old client?" "No, honey, it wasn't a mistake," Mrs. Noah interrupted, her voice lower and more tense. "Bruce is saying he talked to her and took this photo at our wedding, at the Petach farm. But we reviewed the guest list a hundred times. I know every single face that was there. We have never seen this girl before. We don't know who she is." Those words echoed like thunder in my mind. My brain began to race in a thousand directions and bizarre theories. Where could that woman have come from? Was my own mind sabotaging my sanity and driving me completely insane? But the contradiction was violent: if I was losing my mind and creating hallucinations, how was it possible that I was holding physical proof—a real, developed photograph of that exact hallucination? Mrs. Noah broke the silence, handing the photo back to me with a look that mixed pity and discomfort: "Bruce... we are very sorry we can't help with your mystery. But thank you for the excellent service with the wedding photos. See you around." The couple stepped back and closed the wooden door, leaving me alone on the porch. I began to walk aimlessly back toward the main street, feeling the weight of the mystery crushing my shoulders. Who was that girl with eyes as green as the sea of Pramat? Was she a clandestine inhabitant living hidden in the far reaches of the Petach farm? Or was she something that Bakmu's logic could never explain? With more questions than answers and the photo burning inside my pocket, I took the long way home. When I finally reached my apartment, the silence of the rooms felt heavy, almost suffocating. I was utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally drained by the sheer impossibility of the situation. Without even changing my clothes, I collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling until my eyelids grew too heavy to hold. I wanted to escape the confusion, but sleep offered no refuge. Instead, I plunged into a dream so vivid it felt more tangible than reality itself. Suddenly, I wasn’t in Hitgalut anymore. The twin moons, the color-changing flowers, and the rainbow snow were gone, replaced by a landscape of incomprehensible, terrifying proportions. I was standing in a place called New York. All around me, colossal buildings made of glass and steel pierced the sky like giant geometric monoliths. Below them, the streets were a chaotic, roaring sea of grey asphalt, choked with metallic machines rushing blindly. Thousands of people hurried past me on the sidewalks—a frenetic, endless crowd running in every direction, totally absorbed in their own loud, chaotic routines. The sheer noise and speed of the place made it hard to breathe. Then, right in the middle of that overwhelming urban chaos, I saw her. She was walking calmly along the crowded sidewalk, standing out from the rushing masses like a beacon of light. She wore the exact same dark green dress from the wedding at the Petach farm. Her black hair fluttered gently in the harsh city wind, and she navigated the concrete landscape with an effortless familiarity, as if she truly belonged there. Yet, her striking green eyes looked distant, searching the horizon with a profound melancholy. The realization hit me with the force of a tidal wave: I loved her. It wasn't a simple infatuation or a passing curiosity. It was a magnetic, all-consuming devotion that defied dimensions. I desperately needed to reach her. I tried to run forward, to scream her name above the roar of the city, but the chaotic crowd pushed against me, keeping her agonizingly out of reach. The frantic, violent urge to hold her, to protect her from the cold steel world around us, tore through my chest with such intensity that it jolted me awake. I snapped my eyes open, gasping for air in the darkness of my bedroom. My heart was pounding like a war drum against my ribs, and my skin was cold with sweat. Instantry, I threw my arms out into the empty space beside me, driven by a desperate, instinctual desire to embrace her, to pull her into my arms and assure myself that she hadn't slipped away forever. But my hands caught nothing but the chilly nighttime air. There was no New York, no towering buildings, and no bustling crowd. There was only the dead silence of my apartment and the pale, dual light of Hitgalut's moons bleeding through the windowpanes. The love I felt for that mysterious young woman had just shattered the boundaries of my sanity, and as I lay there shivering in the dark, I knew one thing with absolute certainty: I would have no peace until I crossed whatever line separated our worlds and held her for real.