One day at dusk on the trash heap playground.

The sky is a dull red. It looks bored and unwilling to be magnificent. On a bench made from old steam engine parts sit three figures. One is in rags, one holds a cane and one is a child, they are all male. The child speaks first, his hair is black but not as black as his eyes.

“There will be a missing girl.”

“There is always a missing girl.”

“She is almost always dead, but either way she will never be found, not really.”

“She will always be missed. There will always be tears.”

“Some will always question whether you can ever understand ‘she.’ Any ‘she’ at all”

“Even if her body is found, the sight of her face will only deepen the mystery.”

“Her last moments will be lost, a puzzle with no pieces left.”

“The idea of a puzzle. A puzzle that was a body, a body that was a life, a life that was a mirror.”

“There will be a missing girl.”

“There is always a missing girl.”