On the way back from lunch, P---- picks up something from the ground. I can't see what it is at first. Then she puts out her arm and opens up her hand to show me. It is a leaf, the tiniest leaf I ever saw, a leaf in perfect miniature.
The leaf has turned brown, except for a shrinking patch of green, right at the very tip, as if its life were draining out and only the smallest part of it remained.
I take the leaf, close it inside the pages of a book and press down on it so that the leaf does not show.
Will I ever happen upon the leaf inside the book? And if I do when? A year from now? Ten years? Thirty years? Never?
What if I were to die first. Then P---- would open the book and remember that day, relive the moment when she first picked up the leaf, closed her hand around it, extended her arm, and handed it to me.
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