The old lady was in real trouble now. She did not feel the grey touch of the dark hand as it stroked her wrinkled face, marking her. It would come for her soon, the looming shadow of time, and there was nothing she could do but grow older and weaker. She sat in the back of a black car, and her destination was the foundations of the departed. Accompanying her was her sister, wearing the same black dress. Everything was the colour black today. It was the symbolic colour; the colour of the dark one. The lead weight of a sudden realisation would hit her, not yet, but when she was in the comfort of her home, alone and scared. It would come to her. It would wake her up if she was sleeping, disturb her like a little black bug crawling in the corner of her eye. Someone, a friend, a sister, would ask her if she was alright, and she would reply: 'Yes, i feel fine.' Then she would see a reflection, maybe bouncing off a window, or looking back at her through a cracked mirror. She would see the dark hand. And she would know that she was not fine, not at all.