I want to lie down on the bench then, or better yet, on the grass, rest on something living and see if I can hear the dead underneath.
But I know a lie when I hear one.
What had been became what was and a story only works when you know the ending. When the people in it don’t seem like pretend. When you can think about that girl and how she was once upon a time, and see her. When you don’t already know the story is a lie.