Every morning, Foster draws her face in one of the notebooks he keeps on his bedside table, from memory. It is the same picture, over and over again. It helps him hold her in his mind – it staves off the fear that she is breaking into mist.
He never looks back. Every picture’s fresh. The stack of books grows and grows.
One morning he wakes, half-dreaming, and in a haze knocks over the pile of little black books. One falls open near the wall. Foster picks it up. He stops breathing.
He doesn’t recognize the woman on the page.