"You've come back, " She spoke softly, yet her voice carried volumes, "But I no longer need you." That was the question. Everyone had once asked themselves it. Do I need it. It was whispered from the child at the store, from the woman at the club, and even from the rusted man in the grave. It was told to people. "No," the mother would say when her little girl, with her hair hung proudly at her side, would bring another doll to add to the collection, "You don't need it." Then the father would say to his son, "You no longer need it." Though the son only wanted support, not a toy like others. Those words have been uttered by anyone who has dared to say it. At the least, it would be spoken thrice. One each at dawn and dusk and twilight. For the sun to rise, but they don't need it. For the sun to set, but they don't need it. For another day just to come, or the opposite, for none at all, but they no longer need it. The women, however, did not want something. Well, incorrectly said, she no longer wanted something. I believe it was herself she was talking to. It had to have been, there was no one else in the room. Yes, that is it. She was telling, not asking, but demanding herself. She had said, "You've come back, but I no longer need you."