But somewhere between the last divorce and this morning, Dagmar had learned to un-find herself.
She had not meant to become a question mark. Dagmar Lost
She had spent forty-seven years being found. Found by her mother in the wardrobe during hide-and-seek. Found by her first husband at a gallery opening. Found by her second in a hotel bar in Vienna. Found by her doctor, her accountant, her neighbor who always returned her mail when it went to the wrong flat. But somewhere between the last divorce and this
The train hissed steam into the gray afternoon. Other passengers moved with purpose—mothers gripping children, businessmen adjusting cufflinks, lovers stealing last kisses. Dagmar simply stood, a comma in the wrong sentence. Found by her mother in the wardrobe during hide-and-seek
No, she thought. Not lost. Just not found yet.
Berlin? No. Hamburg? Perhaps.