Strange that this place could never grow old for her.

Strange that no matter how many times she had walked this path here- she was always going to find it every bit as pleasant as that first day she walked it with him. It was as though he were still along side her. Everytime. The first time she traversed this beaten windy walkway rising high above the black cliffs they had stolen off of the path together, losing clothing hither and thither and trading garments as well to procure safe passage back to the carriage. Before that happened however, there was a beautiful hour and three quarters wherein she walked with him completely free of her blouse and lady constrictions wearing only a black linen skirt, tattered by their straying into the wild. She remained strangely haunted by that wind.

Years later... when the world had become unrecognizable to her she would find herself pulled back here for a peculiar day- a day like any other and here in the same familiar kiss of the rising howls around her she would feel a sense of belonging. She returned here- victorious from all those dark and depressing hours spent toiling in mundane duties away from the sea and clouds and cliffs and shores and she disrobed her top layers once again and felt the celestial breath upon her.

It is the darndest occurence! Of all the things the dead remember or choose to live out again and again. She didn’t choose that first day she and this lover turned into hungry beasts in the grass or the night of her sixth Christmas or her 11th Hallowe'en with her big sister or the first week with her first puppy.

It was the day after all that when she returned here- to the winding windy walk here- all by her lonesome self, free to be loved all over her usually covered breasts and shoulders by the black cliff's howling air, running its windy fingers through her long dark raven hair which flowed behind her like the breathing sea below.

Sometimes there are people who cross her route and they report different experiences about the encounter. There are the ones who swear that they found tiny tatters of dark linen hanging off the grass. That is a spectacular occurance as they bring it to town and the eldest villagers are called to appraise it and word gets round the place that another piece of 'Her' has been discovered. And the lucky tourist is showered with superstitious praise and affections- sometimes parties breakout- you'd think it were a heroes welcome. Others come here and give reports that they heard sounds of laughter and some days even still others claiming to be blessed in possessing the rare gift of ribaldry, allowing them to see her eternal free flowing ecstacy upon the wind. They shiver delightfully that they found 'The Windy Wanderer'. That is what they call her. They are perhaps right to presume her so. she prefers to take her walks when the wind picks up- letting her know on that cathartic day that she was indeed alive. So very alive.

O but every now and then... it chills this narrators bones to report to you that there is that sad and cursed witness who comes running back to the seafaring town shaken wild eyed trauma that they saw the Windy Wanderer reaching the end of her route- wearing nothing but a tattered black skirt. What a sad wretch indeed. For her eternal day this eery wight had chosen her final day. It was when she stopped walking and flew off to continue her route off of her dark perch, wandering down to the rocks and shoals never to be clothed again...