The time traveler rolled a cigarette with a little machine and then struck a match. The glow briefly lit up his face. The one memory that always haunted him, he whispered, his favourite memory, was the night he spent lying in the cool grass of a park with a man and his wife, talking softly in between long intervals of silence, while watching a meteor shower. Though they were skeptics and progressives, incorrectly doubting what they did not know they could not doubt, the gentleness of the time they shared and the closeness of their bodies and souls under the blaze of dead stars seemed more precious and indelible than any of the great events he had witnessed, and he wanted it so much to mean more than the weight of truth that the natural history of time had taught him, but in his heart he knew well that it did not. It was a moment of escape perhaps, said his voice or the voice of another, a moment of bittersweet envy and stolen liberty.