I never got to tell her. I never dared tell her my secrets even though I knew they would go with her into the dusk. I never told her how his death left me fevered and paralyzed. I waited several years before I visited his grave, and in a way, I returned with a curse. The curse of mortality. The curse of facing it. God. The demons, the angels. Judging every tremor inside.

Instead, I dreamt of sailing to the moon. “Goodnight, Moon!” I used to say. I was no longer a kid, but I didn’t care. Why not? Days when airplanes fall out of the sky, oceans reclaim the earth, you tend to think about humanity. Are you afraid of the dark?