About the work

The woman at the bus stop knows the wind here. It has a particular way of biting, of stripping everything back to its barest essentials. Sometimes, she feels like the wind is trying to tell her something, a secret whispered just beyond the edge of hearing, carried on the damp air. She remembers a day, years ago, when the same wind snatched a letter right from her hand, a letter she'd just finished writing to a long-lost friend, and scattered it across the wet tarmac before she could even retrieve a single page. What she couldn't understand then, and still doesn’t, is why she never wrote it again.