It begins slowly; first, a dull muffling barely lasting more than a couple of seconds, then a shrill ring, so piercing that she wonders if anyone else hears it. When she shakes her head a couple of times, it goes away (sometimes). She notices it more and more frequently, added with the joking quips of friends commenting on her hearing, she becomes slightly worried, but not enough for her to do anything.

When she is washing dishes one day, it happens again, but over a longer span of time than usual, and she stops and thinks, five, or maybe a year from now, will I look back and know when it started?

This is perhaps how it would happen in a literary character’s life. In normal lives, we never know when these moments are significant, when that stranger you exchanged looks with will reappear perhaps, or what began a slow spiral into disease. That’s left for the audience who is watching, for the audience who cares to pick out those moments. Perhaps we are loathe to pick them out ourselves; too much effort, too much chance, too many choices. Perhaps it is better that we can’t predict our futures.

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