Apostle

Apostle. That’s me. I am lying on a painted wooden floor in a strange cold house that is miles away from my mistress. Some people come occasionally (probably, they are the owners of the house) and offer me some food. I don’t want to eat. I want to be with my mistress.

I don’t know what day it is today or how long I have been here. I have lost count of the days. Too many of them have passed since that evening when my mistress left me here. I am waiting for her. She will come back, she surely will.

To be honest, the owners of my present dwelling are kind people. They worry about me and are anxious that I refuse their food and may become ill. Their house is surrounded by a beautiful, but neglected garden. Out of the window one can see a lake that is far away and the woods, surrounding it. Not a single house in the neighbourhood. I understand those who live in out-of-the-way places. These hermits are really kind, but they can’t substitute my mistress…