The story of the unnamed

The story of the unnamedShop the dream

“I met the unnamed yesterday…”

I needed to find a quite place to read this book of short stories the librarian had loaned me yesterday, so I walked through the woods and on to the beach until I found this small boat house which I was certain was abandoned as the sofa was tattered and there were cobwebs everywhere.

Closing the door behind me to prevent the ice cold breeze of the sea from coming in, I lied on the sofa, with the layers upon layers of my dress preventing me from direct contact with the dirt stained fabric. I had gone through a number of stories — they were short but labyrinthine in nature — when I saw the door of the cabin opening slowly by a frail figure with straight hair, looking more like a shadow with the light of the afternoon sun. The figure stood there, almost reluctant to step inside the cabin, hesitant, but wanting to see who was inside.

“Rebecca?”

“No, it’s Madeliene Rose.”

At this, she stepped inside more confidently. She had a pale complexion that made her look tired and young. She looked as dreary and grey as the weather around here, donning a midi dress that made her seem inexperienced.

“This cabin is private property, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Yes I know darling, I apologise, but I wanted to read in a quiet place and I thought nobody came here anymore. I was wrong. You see these stories, they’re about another time — another world — that is now long past it’s time. Why is it that everything that belongs to the past is perceived as so enigmatic and is so sought after?”

She was about to say something, but she hesitated and fell quiet again.

“Sure, once we break through the glamour of the past and see the real picture, then the present does not look so bad anymore — then we start seeing the beauty of our present, of the mundane occurrences of the everyday because we realise how quickly it can slip away from under our fingers. We are so guilty of wanting a time that is not our present — we desire to be as enigmatic as those who belong to the past and we long for our future selves to come soon, so that we can grasp the unknown present. What we forget is that now is the time for youth, beauty and passion. Don’t you think so?

Of course she had barely listened to a word I had said — it was the first time I had met someone who zoned out more than I do. I let her be, I was surely not able to break through her line of thought, so I bid the unnamed farewell, and walked away, while a young man, who looked scared of the world came in to the cabin.

Story credits: Daphne du Murier’s Rebecca; Marie Claire Italy for the image.

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