The farmer is dead. He wasn’t that old.
I’m sure he killed him to get into his life and stop running away.
I’m Dory, the lost one. The one you forget. The one who follows you everywhere you don’t want to.
The spectrum you fear more than your own death.
The chap wasn’t ill. He wasn’t sick. Each time they cross someone path, something terrible happen.
Grandma stopped her television appearance. I think she gave up.
I’m Dory. The one buried somewhere humid. Somewhere, where a river flows. Last night something bad happened. The farmer is dead and so with him, their secret.
The little one knows I’m here. She can feel my presence. She doesn’t seem to be impressed. She should be. I was supposed to protect her from what he wanted to do with her. Instead, I’m not human anymore. I weigh less than 21 grams.
I sense something wrong led him to eliminate the problem as he did. I sense something different from what he used to be. To act.
I’m Dory. I see everything you can do. I lurk and observe. I’m hidden, you can’t see me.