The girl moved swiftly, silently down the narrow streets of WhiteRock. The moon was high in the sky, and the shadows of the night danced across her pale face.
She seemed mesmerised. Staring straight ahead, her pace not faltering once. She had only one thought, and that was to get to WhiteRock ridge.
She wore a long ripped gown that was once a deep purple, as it trailed behind her, and her hair hung loosely from a poorly made bun. She was not scared, nor sad, nor happy, but she was determined.
But determined about what? Passers-by took one look at her torn expression and wish they knew.
The girl, whose name was Edna, was nearing the sea, and her empty head filled with the panic she was desperately trying to avoid. She wrapped her worn shawl tighter around her shoulders, murmuring some words of comfort to herself.