Junu walked slowly, sloshing her wet boots on the gravel interspersed with mud puddles that erupted like acne along the sides of the ridge boulevard every monsoon. The rains had just stopped but thunder rumbled somewhere beyond the dark clouds. The Denzong valley, nestled in the foothills of the mighty Himalayas was engulfed in a blanket of clouds heavily laden with moisture. Oblivious to this heavenly wrath Junu walked on, as one would in a trance, nothing to protect her drenched frame from the monsoon fury and nothing either from the pain within.

She walked, propelled by the energies of yesterday. A slowly fading life kept her alive, the smiles of yesterday haunted her at times and melted into tears at others. She would walk into the mist and disappear if she could but then she couldn’t. She would walk right out.

She had lost her something to nothingness, like the water that has flown off the river many a times and over again. And every time you dip your hands in that river you touch it and lose it again.

She looked but did not see. She listened but did not hear.

She walked without direction, without orientation, she walked as the road did. On and on into the never ending void.

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