The newcomer to the mountain village spent a lot of time walking.
Her cherry-red coat was very visible between tall fir trees smudged with mist and alongside the preoccupied mountain streams.
She seemed to favour one of the streams in particular. The one where its bridge looked over the neatly-edged black stones, divided by the rushing water.
Undoubtedly picturesque in summer, under the laden winter skies, the icy winds had littered the ground with forlorn pine needles, some stones wore grim moss coats, and the swift, shallow water coldly carried away remnants of coloured leaves. It wasn’t a place to linger.
The woman didn’t seem to mind. She spent a long time standing on the bridge, hands in pockets, as she stared at the flowing water. Lost in thought.
She visited the same bridge every day, leant on the railings every day and stared at the fast-flowing stream every day for six days.
On the seventh day, she was there again. But today, inside her cherry-red pocket, a ball of crumpled paper sat heavy. It was scored deep with words of fury, burning bitterness and shattered misery.
The woman stood and stared at the running water, bare fingers clenched tight together in front of her. Clouds of steam erupting irregularly from her nose.
Finally, in a quick, jerky movement, the woman dug the paper out of her pocket and hurled it into the water.
The cold burned at her eyes and cheeks as the stream caught the paper and swallowed it.
The woman turned and walked away, shoulders rigid in the cherry-red coat.
In the stream, the paper sat, caught by stones even as the swirling water tugged at it. Under misted light and starlight, the water scrubbed and scoured and teased until the ink washed out and the words were no more. Then, the paper gently disintegrated as though it had never been.
**********
Meg Singer, owner of the local Boobook Café, and part-time clairvoyant, prepared a large, unsweetened hot chocolate. It was for the quiet young woman in the lilac jacket sitting in the window seat overlooking the park.
As she put the drink down, Meg realised and blurted out. “Oh, you’re the lady with that lovely red coat!”
The young woman froze, hand outstretched.
With both their hands on the glass, Meg was hit with one of her occasional visions in a frenzied kaleidoscope of fragmented images. Heavy still traffic – hammering hearts – a tense stand-off of ice-cold words – another woman, triumphant – being the other woman once – unrepentant eyes – sneers – the clarity of cold running water – a heart in shards – turning away from a job – the cherry-red coat in a charity bin…
The young woman looked at Meg, gave a curious half-smile, and said, “it is – was – a nice coat.” She shrugged her lilac shoulders, “but it was time for a change.”
Meg blinked dazed, and pulled her hand away in a hurry.
Ree-Imagined Worlds 
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