I. Garden

he world was tired.

Sometime in winter.
The Calfera Gardens stood still.

Bone cold air, dry dusk. A barely visible kind of thin soot covered the ice and snow. Dark blue Synthas and other ‘Moothen’ flowers swayed in perfect nano-governed symmetry against a blank white plate of post-suburban landscape.
Mountaina Drive gripped the residential lines of high gaunt trees scraping light from the canopy of dark clouds vaulted above. Bare limbs of tall oaks meandered in the air slowly breathing threads of wind like flies swatted by a newspaper. Pockets of scorched black ground seeped through holes in the melting snow. As one approached the house.
The house.
Home.
Dr. Damiand’s front door cried a defiant red.
Enormous bay windows came jutting over an excess part of the driveway like a steamship’s bow hanging over a dock.
A shiny navy colored D-Mailbox, untouched by the elements, read in machine carved font:
“UnaDriven Fairview DIPLOMAT District Seg. 255.”

Inside the house someone was crying. And lightly gasping for air. Of the entire neighborhood only the Damiands had managed to remain animated.

“Are you still there Johanna?”
No one said anything. A mouth motioned itself open.
“Johanna.”
His wife put a hand on his after a long attempt.

“I love you Johanna,” Mr. Damiand told her in a soft, distant, murmuring voice. “I will always love you.”
This time he could feel the muscles within him stretching against bone. Something was slowing down, he knew it.

“If you make it out of here Johanna, tell them we had no idea. Tell them Helen had no idea.”
He knew she wouldn’t make it. And he knew he wouldn’t either.
She turned to face him with an endearing smile full of tears, pain, adoration and surrender. She tightened her grip around his palm one last time before she froze completely.
He began rocking back and forth very slightly.
“Oh God in Heaven, Johanna!” Tears joined his chin before he could realize he’d begun crying.