HER | ✓

⍣Four⍣

Sometimes things happen when you least expect them to. The world is completely fine and then the next moment you're in the middle of a tornado. Everything around you is getting sucked up and whirled around. You can't do anything about it but go for the ride and hope that when it's all over, you'll be alive and fine. But that isn't how it always works. Sometimes the crash landing is too hard to take and you're left lying face down on the ground without a soul in sight. Not a single person to come and save you, but you still pray someone will come along, see you and take into their merciful arms. To save you from the disaster the tornado left behind. 

Clayton stared at Farah and imagined she was his tornado. She came back into his life after all this time but she was George's, and he could already feel himself doing a backwards spiral. He stood there in marveled shock. His hand gripped the railing with all its power to keep him standing upright. He wasn't sure what would happen if he let go. The inanimate object became his lifeline; without it he would surely plummet to the ground like a freshly fallen leaf or run to his emanate death as he wallowed in sadness. But who would save him once the tornado passed? Who would be there to pick up his shattered form? 

He couldn't find an answer and watched on like an outsider, a toy castaway for a brand new one. He watched as his mother smiled warmly at Farah and the little girl who hung by her legs. It all felt surreal, like a dream.

"And who are you?" Martha knelt down, resting her hands on her knees.

"Charlotte." The little girl smiled. Her missing front teeth caused her to talk with a lisp and her brown curls sprang from underneath her knitted cap. She looked like someone he knew. 

"Oh! Such a sweet name!" Martha beamed, still unaware of the plight taking place inside his mind.

He knew he should walk over and introduce himself but he couldn't coerce himself into letting go of the railing or taking another step. He studied Farah. If he had a polaroid picture he could compare with he wouldn't find a single difference. Her hair was the same light brown. Her lips the same bright red. Her eyes the same color of hazel. He smiled to himself. Not a single thing changed.

"Thank you, my mommy picked it out for me." Charlotte blushed.

"How old are you Charlotte?" Martha asked.

"Seven." Charlotte looked down at the snowball still resting in her hands. She fiddled with it in hopes she wouldn't be the center of attention any longer.

Clayton choked on his breath, his eyes grew large, and he couldn't do anything but stare at the girl.

Seven.

Clayton's breath grew quick. He felt sick. The hand gripping the rail began to sweat. It loosened just a bit but he clamped harder. He refused to go down without a fight and his mouth watered. He desperately wanted to run for the restroom, but he couldn't. Not now. 

Seven, Charlotte's voice echoed.

His world grew quickly and shrunk again; back and forth it went. His eyes remained on Charlotte.

Seven.
Seven.
Seven!

"Clay are you alright sweetie?" Martha was standing in front of him now.