The girl I once loved fled our dorm room in the dead of night with nothing but a golden harmonica and a film camera around her neck. I went through months of interrogations from the police until they decided this case was just of another young dreamer who’s yet to learn the cruel reality of life past 21. Years later, I see her again, like a passing phantom. I wonder what had happened to her, if she ever played her instrument to wandering animals in the forest, or if she ever showcased her film in small town cinemas. But even as she stood on the street with just a blanket to cover her frail body, spouting anti-government theories in her shrill, unrecognizable voice, I still thought she was beautiful.
