There was a rather old book about a journey and a search for a woman in that book. Or maybe the book was hers. Isis? The story was accompanied by music that touched me in a way that music had never touched me before. The book was also a CD or DVD but also a blank postcard. Without text but with a simple watercolor in faded colors on the front.
The thick book falls apart quite easily.
"Don't read!", warns the man. Who reads from it until his breath catches.
Thanks to the search for the woman in or of the book, disappearances are solved by a female detective. The rather large lady stands at the spot where the dead body of Isis (?) lies. Wrapped in plastic Albert Heijn shopping bags.
Whoever murdered her placed her on top of a freshly dug grave at a small, modern cemetery. Now she can be buried. By a select group. Including a young teenage lady who pays her respects by performing a self-invented ritual.
I leave. With a woman. A man on a moped wearing a simple white helmet leaves the old wooden barn where the story was told.
Meanwhile, it is early morning and it has started to snow.
I leave.
In my socks through the snow.
