I laugh. “Right.”

She scooted up next to me, rested her head on my shoulder. She felt warm. Sort of.

“Why do you ask? Do you feel tired?”

“No.”

She giggled again. “Then what are we talking about it for?”

I smiled, nudged her head with my own. “I don’t know.”

She groaned, threw her hands up in the air, draping them over me. Funny how she made such simple things so confusing.

I paused, studying the sky. I had never before noticed, but the clouds were stuck in place too, like distant paintings.

“Have you ever dreamed?”

She laughed, elbowed me in the side. “More questions?”

I shrugged again.

Sighing, she got up, stretched. “I’m always dreaming.” She turned to me. Reaching out a thumb, she prodded my forehead. “How about you?”

“Yeah.” I smiled. “Me too…”

There’s a pathway, diverging slightly from the road. Eager for some sort of change, I step off onto it, my shoes crunching in the dirt. I push stray branches out of my face, travel through the arms of hedges. When I make it through, though, I stop.

I’ve never been here before, never seen this place. But I know it. I remember it, somehow. Like déjà vu that doesn’t go away.

In front of me, there’s a white picket fence. Behind the fence, there’s a garden, filled with every flower imaginable. Vines claw their way in between the spaces of the fence posts, tendrils grabbing and climbing up their length, like ascending Jacob’s ladder to some unattainable divinity.

To my right, there’s a wooden sign, words engraved in it. It reads, ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY: ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE’.

I step forward, rest my hands on the fence, look out over the earthly masterpiece. I’m no florist, but I’ve never seen anything like it. Unlike the gardens of the street-side houses, the colors of the petals weave and fade, painting a picture of sorts. It’s one of those miracles that doesn’t happen by chance, but is too perfect to be handmade. It’s something that just is and there’s no questioning it. Sort of.