December in Berkeley Hills, is the raining season, moisture fog drifting among a narrow bar of Eucalyptus and oak, alongside the trail, dirt and outcrops grew up yellow-green scrub grass. One mile down away, ocean is in sleep, breathing against the shore.
At the south side, there is a small and shabby house dwelling at a slope, logs crack in fireplace, casting the luminous orange glow in the middle night.
It would be the 19th Christmas eve for our protagonist.
Jim is resting on the desk. A drop of water sneaks out of his mouth, shining slightly in the fireplace light.
He dreamed he is a baby, giggling and waving his arms to a young lady. He never saw such a beautiful face in his life, and she is staring at him with a mother-like satisfying.
She kissed his face, took one last look, “I’m so sorry, but time is up, go find Enoch, my child, Go!”
A pair of white wings spread from her back, quivering.
She fluttered up to the sky, faded, leaving him crying hardly in the vervain and dill. Sunny and windy, Oh my God, such a beautiful day!
The earth beneath starts vibrating.