I turned the peach two and a quarter times over in my hand, contemplating its meaning. I looked and traced with my eyes the path that the dark man’s footsteps had taken. I inhaled and exhaled through my nose, something my mother had taught me to keep calm before she was killed.             I let my hair loose. It felt bushy and absurd, as I rarely let it out, even when I slept. I used the twine that held it up to make a pouch at the side of my shirt to hold the peach, as my pockets weren’t big enough. I felt exposed, even there by myself, with my pale hip showing. I ignored the feeling of nakedness and timidly stepped along the path where the man had gone. The forest was blurry and glowing but the path was clear .I vaguely wondered why this was but decided not to contemplate it too much. It wasn’t long before I found him. He turned slowly around and his eyes went straight to where I had tied up the peach. I covered my exposed skin with my sleeve, my face hot.             I then realized that he was also clear, clear as the path on which he walked.             “Are you real?” I asked hoarsely, my voice trying to hide itself in my throat. The man smiled.             “That is for you to decide, isn’t it, Marie,” his answer was not a question.             “Am I in a dream?” I continued relentlessly, dismissing the fact that he knew my name.             “It depends on what you consider dreaming.”             I gazed at him, and he gazed right back, his eyes familiar but not familiar. They were peculiar eyes, but not in a bad way. They were so brown that they were black, and two stubborn locks of wavy hair fell over his forehead. I tried to read him, but it was to no avail. He smiled a bit.             “You won’t remember me, no matter how you try,” he said, a tinge of either grimness or sadness in his voice. I couldn’t distinct which was which. Frustrated, I untied my shirt from itself and shoved the peach to his black-clothed chest.             “Take it. I don’t need it,” I remarked coldly.             He looked so hopelessly confused for a moment that I almost took back my hand. Then, the look left his face and he took it gently in his hands. He turned it two and a quarter times in his own palms, his brows, barely visible under those two thick locks of hair, furrowed.             “This isn’t how it usually is,” he murmured, his voice almost like a growl, but more curious than angry.             “What do you mean?” I asked. He looked startled when he took his eyes off of the peach, as if he just noticed my presence.             “It’s you,” he said. I was unsure of how to respond.             “Yes, it’s me,” I said uncertainly. A slow smile spread across his face, and he began to laugh. I took a step back.             “It’s you. Oh, Lord, you’re finally here,” he cried breathlessly. His knees sank to the ground and he ran his hands through his own hair. I took another step back, tense with concern. Was this man insane?             He looked up at me, his dark eyes large. “Where are you going,” he said, not asking but stating, such a peculiar habit. “Please don’t leave, Marie.”             I observed his pleading stature, wary. “Who are you?” I asked him.             He stood, shaky on his own two feet, his black pants covered in dirt at the knees. “You’ll remember. You’ll remember,” he mumbled.             “If you don’t tell me I’ll leave!” I shouted. “I almost sliced a woman in half with my hand following some orange light that smelled like a bloody peach, and the whole time it was you and everything’s all blurry except for you and I want to know why!”             He stared at me. I probably looked mad, my bushy hair flying astray, fists clenched and breathing heavy.             “I have no name. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. I’ve been waiting for someone to remember me for three hundred and four years, eight months, two weeks and fifty nine minutes,” he said.             I inhaled and exhaled through my nose. “That’s impossible,” I breathed. He smiled.             “Sixty.”