There was a swing.
Not a playground.
Not a tree.
Just a single wooden swing hanging from two white ropes that disappeared upward into the endless sky.
No matter how far anyone looked...
...there was nothing holding it.
Yet it gently swayed, as though an invisible breeze remembered to visit every evening.
Below it stretched an endless field.
Not grass.
Not clouds.
The ground looked like countless pages of old books laid side by side.
Every page was blank.
Walking across them made no sound.
Only tiny golden letters occasionally drifted upward before dissolving into little fireflies.
Above, the sky wasn't blue.
It wasn't black, either.
It looked like the inside of a seashell.
Soft pearl colors slowly flowed across it, carrying rivers of stars that moved so slowly they seemed asleep.
At the center of everything...
The swing waited.
...
A young woman arrived first.
She carried no luggage.
Only a little pocket watch.
It had no numbers.
Its hands wandered wherever they pleased.
She sat upon the swing.
It moved exactly once.
Then became perfectly still.
Several minutes later—
or perhaps before—
someone else appeared.
A young man carrying an empty picture frame.
Nothing inside it.
Not even glass.
He stood beside the swing.
"I've been looking for somewhere to hang this."
She looked around the endless field.
"There aren't many walls."
"I noticed."
He smiled.
"So I kept walking."
She pointed toward the swing.
"Would you like to sit?"
"If I do..."
"...who will push it?"
She laughed quietly.
"I hadn't thought of that."
The silence between them felt comfortably unfinished.
Nearby...
One of the blank pages folded itself into the shape of a little paper crane.
It stretched tiny wings.
Then calmly flew away toward the sleeping stars.
Neither reacted.
Apparently...
That sort of thing happened often here.
The young man placed the empty frame against the swing.
The moment he did...
The world inside the frame became different.
Not another place.
Another possibility.
Sometimes it showed the swing hanging beneath an ocean.
Sometimes inside a cathedral made entirely of morning fog.
Sometimes above a city built upon giant lilies floating through space.
Every few moments...
The image quietly changed.
"It's choosing," he whispered.
"Choosing what?"
"I don't know."
"It seems happy taking its time."
"So do we."
The frame glowed softly.
Then became empty once more.
Far away...
The horizon suddenly stood up.
It unfolded like a giant piece of paper until it became hundreds of floating staircases.
None led anywhere.
Halfway up each staircase stood another swing.
Thousands of them.
Gently swaying.
Perfectly empty.
The young woman looked upward.
"I wonder why nobody's sitting there."
"Maybe they already are."
She tilted her head.
"I don't understand."
He nodded.
"I don't think I was meant to."
A little smile appeared between them.
The first star of evening slowly descended.
Not falling.
Simply deciding to be lower.
It landed gently beside the swing.
It wasn't hot.
It wasn't even bright.
It looked like a tiny marble made of quiet.
The young woman picked it up.
Inside the star...
She could see herself.
Not as she was now.
Much older.
Sitting peacefully on the very same swing.
Reading a book whose pages became birds each time she turned them.
She handed the little star to him.
"What do you see?"
He looked.
"...A house."
"What kind?"
"It has windows in the ceiling."
"So you can see the stars?"
"No."
He smiled.
"So the stars can look in."
They sat quietly again.
The sky slowly lowered itself.
Not enough to touch.
Only enough that the nearest constellations drifted lazily between the floating swings.
One little constellation became tangled in the white rope above them.
The stars apologized.
The rope untied itself.
Everything continued as though such things happened every evening.
The young woman opened her strange pocket watch.
Its wandering hands had stopped.
For the first time.
They pointed toward the swing.
Not twelve.
Not three.
Simply...
The swing.
"I think..."
"...it's telling me this is the right time."
"What time?"
She closed the watch.
"This one."
He nodded.
"Good."
Neither asked for a better answer.
The endless pages beneath them slowly began filling with handwriting.
Not stories.
Not poems.
Only little sentences.
Some read,
"The wind remembered your name today."
Others simply said,
"Welcome back."
One page remained completely blank.
The young man noticed it.
"Why hasn't this one written anything?"
The young woman smiled.
"I think..."
"...it's waiting for us."
She gently picked up the empty picture frame.
He sat beside her on the wooden swing.
Together they held the frame toward the sleeping sky.
Nothing appeared inside it.
Nothing needed to.
Because for one very quiet moment...
The frame had finally found something beautiful enough to leave exactly as it was.
The swing continued moving almost too slowly to notice.
The pages whispered beneath them.
The stars watched through the ceiling of forever.
And somewhere beyond the pearl-colored sky...
Morning patiently waited for its turn,
careful not to interrupt.