The mist was extra thick this morning. The bicyclist would swear it, to anyone he encountered. He would nod, call out in greeting, and say, "Quite the fog!" That would be sure to garner a friendly reply. Maybe even a chortle. At least something in response, if just two words like, "I'll say!"

He pedaled faster. There were figures out there, but they never seemed any closer, or farther, for that matter. He had never ventured out there. He stuck to his path, feeling certain that this was the particularly foggy day that would be different: Someone would cross his path.

Would they be on bike also? Or on foot? Out for a stroll, or in a hurry? His hands gripped the handlebars as the wind stirred the thick mist just ahead of him. He loved looking forward to today. Today would be new; and consequently, every day afterward. He was to meet someone—Someone—along this path. His path.

He could see it in the distance. Off his right shoulder. Some mornings he looked directly at it, and some days, he just couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it at all. Some days, he realized, he barely acknowledged himself. Today, though, as it came into view, the Sculpture almost seemed to speak to him. Night & Day.

Abruptly, he halted, directly across from the Sculpture. Had it always been Night & Day? In that order? He racked his brain. He could picture the opposite: Day & Night, but he couldn’t quite say if he had seen the Sculpture with this sequence in reality. Troubling. Troublesome.

He lifted his foot to push the pedal but stopped. He was having a moment of…what was the word? Déjà vu, yes. He glanced over at Night & Day. The opening in the center, now that had always been like that. Along with the people. He couldn’t tell if they were on this side or that side of the Sculpture. He laughed quietly to himself–this fog was so illusory.

Someone was going to be crossing his path today. He looked into the thickness ahead of him. This was the path he traveled every morning, but for the first time, unless he did this every day, he had to ask himself, "Where am I going?" He was feeling forgetful, even though he knew he knew himself better.

He put his other foot on the other pedal, almost mechanically, but stopped again. He flexed his fingers and stared hard into the fog. Was someone coming? The wind shifted a swath over the paved path about ten yards ahead, but no one appeared. The bicyclist listened. Nothing, save for the wind. Not even birds chirped.

That was another odd happening, or rather, non-happening. When had he last heard the sound of birds? He couldn’t say. He could definitely remember what they sounded like. "Well, if that isn’t something." He murmured, lingering still on his bike. He tried to whistle a tune he knew, but found his lips to be either out of shape or not cooperating with the melody that was just …ha, on the tip of his tongue.

He cleared his throat. "Hey!" None of he shadowy figures seemed to hear him, even when he shouted louder and louder. A bit irritated and bit more irrationally, he began belting, "Where am I going? Where am I going?" Of course, no one out there responded, but after his last full-throated bellow of the question, the answer occurred to him.

"I’m going to meet someone. Someone I know." With that, he dropped his bike to the ground, and started for the gap between Night and Day in the Sculpture.