Alvin Ashleigh’s funeral took place on a rainy spring day. Lowered into the ground, his death seemed like it was also that of the movement he had led.
“I still can’t believe it,” whispered one attendee. “A sniper shot him in the head - just for protesting. And those poor children…” That the Khan government had fallen the same day was of little comfort to the parents of those schoolchildren who had been out on a trip when they fell victim to a bayonet charge.
—
Alvin Ashleigh awoke. For the twentieth time - he had lost count, perhaps the twenty-second; or was it the twenty-seventh? - it was the day of the protest. Was he awake or still dreaming?
Groggily, he sat up. He was early, an hour ahead of his alarm, but knew there would be no getting back to sleep at this point. As he brushed his teeth and showered, he thought about the strange dream he had had. It was as though he was stuck in a time loop, from the protest at Grey’s Monument in Newcastle to wherever events would lead.
“Less cheese, maybe.”
Soon enough he had forgotten all that had come before.
