Suppose.

He thought he'd seen her run past the  big oak, and suddenly, supposed she was behind the thick foliage that enclosed the garden. He ran towards it only to find a very high wall, made of dirty, vine covered bricks which stared at him with reproving eyes. He backed up in panic. He'd remembered. His schizophrenia had been worsening for some years now. He could barely remember who he was or who he was chasing anymore except during the little moments of lucidity in which the abominable reality crawled up his neck. When gone, he couldn't even remember that she, who he'd been chasing over the now flower-less garden was long gone. Gone on behalf of the fear; fear of the faceless illness that afflicted her lover. Illness which had taken his laughter, smile and love, and had returned empty bark full of echoing memories which now had no name or face but just the fake continuous loop of the garden chase the evening before he'd been diagnosed as the madman he now portrayed. He ached for lucidity to vanish; he shed a couple of meaningless tears and wiped them just in time to notice her running past the big oak.