On a bright, hot summer morning, white hands flutter from a window on the top floor of the old state hospital. They hover in the air, reach for the sky, then fall to the sill, limp.
Disappear.
Return.
Long strands of hair blow in the breeze as a pale forehead is pressed against the bars, and a querulous voice begins a litany that rises slowly in intensity.
“When will you come?”
Pale fingers drum on the sill, then leap to clutch the bars with fierce knuckles as the woman begins to scream.
“When. Will. You. Come?”
“When. Will. You. Come?”