The windows were tall, the drapes a little too long that they crumpled while touching the ground. He lay in bed, eyes shut. A drop of sweat trickled down his temple. The building’s air conditioning was in no way helping the sultry weather and the air vent rattled as it took heavy ragged breaths.
I felt the hot afternoon sun the moment I jumped out of the school bus and skipped down the narrow mud road. The empty water bottle dangled around my neck as I began to walk faster. My black shoes were soiled and dusty and one sock was shorter than the other as always.
A thing which had been discarded and, instead of having been disposed off with the other useless things, had found refuge in the solitary ward of Number 7. It was the most beautiful thing in the entire asylum, more beautiful than the bed of wild flowers along the wall of the compound.