She is lost in the middle of nowhere. Dressed in white as the loneliest soul, she walks in silence with the only rumour of her insecure steps. It smells like Autumn. It smells like hate. She has been thrown in wet brown and familiar orange, and now her little aura is a mixture of dead petrichor and the slow breathing of the forest. There is no sound, only the symphony of her eyes disturbs this alive depth.
Suddenly, the darkness says hello with a creepy smile drew on its non-faced body. Leafs are not friends with the girl in white anymore, the wet floor has become her most revengeful enemy, her aura is full of branches and the petrichor is flooding her lungs. The forest is still breathing, but it is breathing the air she needs, the air she is asking for while her hair refuses to get gold again, while her eyes refuses to sing again, while that alive depth turns into dead emptiness.
And a little soft bear. And a singular laugh.
And a really bad feeling. And the remind of love.
It's the time. It's eight o'clock.