I mean, before it had usually been something mellow like, “It’s going to rain on Thursday” or “The bus will not come tomorrow” or “Your neighbor will destroy your flowers.” Nobody thought anything of them, they we’re merely seen as heartfelt anecdotes to make the ones left behind think that their passing loved ones would see their future as they would be there even when they were dead. So nobody really thought anything of it when their dying aunt said, “The ducks are coming.” But the ducks didn’t come, which was a little unsettling, but then again, a time frame wasn’t mentioned. Then soon after, it happened again - someone’s sister, again - someone’s daughter, again - someone’s co-worker. Within two months everyone was talking about ducks.

The stores started to run out of bread as everybody wanted to be ready for the ducks. See, if it was going to rain on Thursday, your loved one would be in the rain; or they would be standing with you at the bus stop waiting for the bus that never came; they would be drawn in the footsteps of your neighbor walking over your flowerbed. Everyone wanted to feed their loved one. Masses of people started hovering around ponds and lakes. Everywhere you went you could hear someone using a duck-whistle. Some became more obsessed than others, but they all were obsessed nevertheless. Some said: “Maybe the dead are coming back.”

With all the bread being thrown into the water, more ducks did come, of course. Unfortunately, they all died of eating too much. The waters turned into porridge, if you will. The ducks didn’t so much come on their own - they were called, summoned. To some, it made no difference - the ducks had come. But others couldn’t let go: these were the same ducks they’d seen by the pond. Where were the new ducks?

Then one day, a roaring came. It started low, from someplace far. The streets started to fill up with people as the roaring grew. Everyone was bringing out their bread, some was even violently stolen by those who had thought the ducks already came but now realized - they must have been wrong! The roaring kept getting louder and louder until everybody had to keep their hands to their ears, until everyone was looking at the sky, silent. And then they came - the ducks. Wide, black, army based fighter planes - with ducks painted on their sides. I guess it was an inside joke to keep the birds at bay, to blend in. The dead indeed came back - but not to eat the bread, but to get the ones that were left behind.