The Sky That Doesn’t Change
The ropes creaked as he swung gently forward.
Then back.
Then forward again.
The tree above him moaned softly with the motion, old bark shifting like ribs trying to breathe.
He looked up at the sky.
It was blue.
Unmoving.
Like a painting of a memory someone didn't want to let go of.
The girl stood a few steps away, arms folded behind her back. Her feet were bare again. She never looked at the swing. Only the horizon.
He kicked the dirt lightly with the tip of his shoe, letting the swing slow. Then asked:
"Do you think the sky is real?"
She tilted her head, but didn't look at him.
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"I don't know."He stared up again."It hasn't changed since I got here."
She didn't answer.
He let the silence stretch for a while.
Only the sound of the swing ropes moving.Forward.Back.
"Did I have a family?" he asked, eyes still on the sky.
"You did."
"What were they like?"
She paused.
"You don't remember?"
"No."
He pushed off the ground gently again.
The swing leaned into the motion.
Then slowed.
She looked down at the dirt.
Then at the swing.
Then away again.
"You're quiet today," he said.
"You're forgetting faster," she replied.
He blinked.
Looked at her, confused.
Then shrugged like it didn't matter.
"I like it here."
The wind rustled faintly through the leaves, but the branches didn't move.
He leaned back slightly in the swing, staring at the clouds—if they were clouds at all.
"Feels like I've been here before."
"You have," she whispered.
He didn't hear her.
"You ever wonder what's under the dirt?" he asked absently, digging his heel into the ground.
She looked at him sharply—just for a second.
Then looked away.
"No," she said.
And the swing moved.
Forward.Back.
Like time itself, pretending to pass.Waiting for him to remember what he's sitting on.