Clara could not shake the image of those eyes the color of honey sad and afflicted. Even without knowing anything more that boy, just think in his shadow running through fields of wheat was enough for her to stir inside. Not even that garden, which before him was a source of infinite peace, was able to extinguish her suffering.
Not only was it that bothered her. Those clothes and her voice were not really hers. Even the feelings. Everything was very real, but not really coming from inside. Came from a place that was connected to it, but it belonged to another person. Anyway, it was a complex thing so that they could express in words. There is no way to translate a feeling like that.
She said nothing about it to Veronica, knowing it could be classified as insane or something.
The day was overcast, but nothing would come out of that garden Clara without having processed all that information before and without finding a solution to that. Who was that guy? What was the connection between him and what was inside it?
Before she could think, she saw that same wolf approaching her and, with the muzzle down, stopped halfway, waiting for her to get up and follow him.
She did so, after looking back and make sure she was alone. They walked to the wheat fields there and the wolf took the girl to a spot where it had completely dried blood, which not even the rain could wash. Clara reached down and felt the same pain in the chest. It was not a dream. Has a memory.
- Why did you bring me here?
Of course the wolf did not yield any response, only growled softly, distancing her even disappear completely without leaving any trace. She did not care to be alone there, but because everything is happening to her now. So long ago it came and went in this house and there was nothing manifested. What was different now?
Clara stood up, doing his best to remember the way he saw that shadow go before receiving the shot that soldier. He could not, however, something had a magnetic effect on her and led her forward, then left until it arrived at a river, whose waters reflected the serene sky apathetic. There was an extremely red rose on the bank, which, incidentally, was very well preserved, as if there not long ago. She did not catch the flower, as had many sharp thorns.
Unconsciously, she continued moving forward and made her way back to the cottage. Clara had written that way in memory and so return there if something happened again.
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