The wind was howling that day—so fierce it was nearly impossible to stand upright. Thick clouds blanketed the sky, threatening rain at any moment. Despite the weather, I stepped out for a walk alone. Perhaps it was the gloom, but I felt strangely irritable, a mix of frustration and self-abandonment. As I gripped the handle, the front door flew open, caught by a sudden gust.
I scrambled outside, struggling to pull the door shut. Battling the wind that threatened to sweep me off my feet, I managed to close it. In that split second of relief, the gale didn’t miss its chance. I was blown away.
Desperate not to be slammed against the pavement, I thrust my legs forward. I kicked off the ground as if trying to outrun the wind’s momentum.
Un, deux, trois!
What was I thinking? Had I simply given up? I began to step out as if performing ballet, calling out in French. I had never done ballet in my life, yet I felt a strange sense of familiarity. Déjà vu—another French term. What was it about France?
How far had I come? Looking around, I realized I was in a park. As the sense of déjà vu intensified, I tilted my head in confusion.
Just then, the wind slapped my cheek like a physical blow. Turning into a side path, I saw a woman approaching from a distance on a bicycle. Instinctively, I felt a surge of anticipation and tried to catch a glimpse of her legs. This, too, felt like something I had experienced before. My expectations rose. And then… an older woman with a triumphant look on her face stared back at me. Finally, my leg gave out, and I was slammed into the ground.
The bicycle passed me by. My leg was scraped. As I tried to wipe the mud from the wound, the wind blew it away. The cold breeze felt surprisingly pleasant against the scrape. For a while, I just lay there, feeling the whimsy of the wind.
I slowly stood up and began to walk again. This time, I wasn’t just being blown about; I was walking with the wind.
