“Kafka, what can you see outside?”
I look out of the window behind her. “I see trees, the sky and some clouds. Some birds on tree branches.”
“But if you knew you might not be able to see it again tomorrow, everything would suddenly become special and precious, wouldn’t it?
“I suppose so.”
“Have you ever thought about that?”
A surprised look comes over her face. “When?”
“When I’m in love.”