*
We walked on till dawn covered us in its tender pink-golden embrace. We walked on and on, blisters welcoming the pilgrim’s plight on us, till we found a Church – on the west coast of Marlowe Davis’ countryside. There, we gave her a burial. Though initially frightened at her state, they simply said, ‘what a terrible thing, age is.’ And we nodded, silent tears pricking our cheeks. She was only sixteen.
A ride was arranged for us, and we decided to go our separate ways. Nobody knew where the other was going. We couldn’t really ‘speak’ to each other. We were all lost…and sad.
-- CHAPTER 12 --
End of Flashback