The girl was alone in the wood. The trees were dark and foreboding. Their twisted roots and trailing branches snagged her feet and hair. She was alone. With a tear streaked face. And cold, blue hands. She was walking. She’d long given up running. Her breath was still ragged, but more from the sobs that choked her. One foot in front of the other. One more step. She walked on through the forest, unseeing and deaf to the rustles and creaks of the wood around her. She wasn’t lost. But she wasn’t clear where she was either. It was unimportant. All that mattered was that she kept moving. Kept moving along the overgrown path. Towards the other side. Where flowers grew. And the meadows sang with larks and the wings of small insects. Nothing grew on the dark floor of the forest but moss and lichens and twisted toadstools. The densely woven canopy shut out the light and muted the sounds of faraway birds. The drip of water and the ancient sigh of the trees hid the smaller sounds of furtive animals. She was alone. And for all her tears, it felt good.