by Рэй Брэдбери
«Tom?» Her weakening mind flew in a night bird under the trees and over deep fields of wild mustard. «Have you still got the paper, Tom? Will you come by someday, some year, sometime, to see me? Will you know me then? Will you look in my face and remember then where it was you saw me last and know that you love me as I love you, with all my heart for all time?»
She paused in the cool night air, a million miles from towns and people, above farms and continents and rivers and hills. «Tom?» Softly.
Tom was asleep. It was deep night; his clothes were hung on chairs or folded neatly over the end of the bed. And in one silent, carefully upflung hand upon the white pillow, by his head, was a small piece of paper with writing on it. Slowly, slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, his fingers closed down upon and held it tightly. And he did not even stir or notice when a blackbird, faintly, wondrously, beat softly for a moment against the clear moon crystals of the windowpane, then, fluttering quietly, stopped and flew away toward the east, over the sleeping earth.
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Document creation date: 22 May 2011
Created using: FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
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